


Pros and Cons(titutions)

by IncurableNecromantic



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anachronism for the Express Purpose of Having Breeches, F/F, F/M, Gen, Hot for Monarchy, It'll All Work Out Probably, M/M, Not Safe For Democracy, Politics, Really Reprehensible, Romance, Royalty, Unholy Eroticization of One's Profession, court intrigue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-07-08 08:47:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 72,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15926954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncurableNecromantic/pseuds/IncurableNecromantic
Summary: Sometimes a family is two dads and their entire political staff.





	1. Staff Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a series of prompts by tumblr user gingerly-writing: 
> 
> http://gingerly-writing.tumblr.com/post/172603299591/hey-there-pleased-and-proud-to-be-one-of-your  
> http://gingerly-writing.tumblr.com/post/174399410786/chief-of-staff

“He keeps a sword in it.”

The private secretary cuts the the press secretary a dry look. “Show a little creativity! Of course he doesn’t keep a sword in it.”

“Well, what then? He’s awfully jealous of it. It’s got to have something rattling around in there.”

“Long barrel, lightweight; clearly it’s an air gun,” the private secretary sniffs, trying to crimp down a smile. The press secretary barks out a laugh.

“No, no,” says the director of policy. She makes a little gun shape with her fingers and pretended to shoot the director of communications. “The body of the cane is empty. He’s just got one little derringer in the handle and he pulls it out to fire it. An air gun would still be too heavy.”

“Has anyone ever dared to ask why he needs it?” 

“He told me he’d fallen off a horse once and it stomped through his left femur,” says the director of policy. The room winces. “I mean, I think he was lying. He was using it as an explanation for why he’s always pushing for innovations in internal combustion.”

“Explains his relish for horse meat, though.”

“I don’t think it’s that he relishes it,” the private secretary says, lacing her hands together over her folders. “But that he rather approves of economical recipes. Hence the, ah. Loss of subsidization for the old racehorses’ home. Anyway, it’s certainly not germane to the cane.”

“You’re all wrong,” the director of communications says through his teeth, tamping the tobacco into his pipe. “The whole thing is a weapon. If he goes upside your head with it, you’re not getting back up.”

“Ha! What’s it made of? Lead?”

“Only in the form of shrapnel.” The director of communications wedges his pipe into the side of his mouth and digs through his pockets for his matches. “The tube is full of gunpowder and he can pull off the handle to unspool a wick. One of these days you’re going to see him ‘accidentally’ drop that thing and if you’re smart, you’re going to find whoever pissed him off and make them beg forgiveness on hand and knee before he blows parliament to kingdom come.”

The scattered snickerings snap off as the door to the office swung open. The staff shoot to their feet. 

“Laughter? Joy?” booms their monarch. He marches in and stops with his hands on his hips, surveying them severely beneath a pair of prominent eyebrows. “In my castle? What is the meaning of this!”

The staff bow, one or two upward twitches still perishing on their lips, the odd shoulder bobbing with amusement.

“Pastime, my Lord,” the private secretary croons, almost setting off the press secretary again. “Mere speculation and exaggeration.”

“Very well, but I’ll have no more merriment while we’re in the room, understood?” The king nods solemnly and glanced behind him. He addresses someone in the corridor. “The worst of it is over, now. They’re chastised and shame-faced. You can feel quite at home.”

The chief of staff appears in the doorway, adjusting his eyeglasses as he surveys the interior. “I am all gratitude, sire. It is kind of you to remember how much happiness upsets me.” 

“Yes, yes,” the king says, waving a hand and pulling out a chair. He sits, lacing his fingers across his chest. “What won’t I do for your comfort.”

The chief of staff slips into the room and gently closes the door behind him. He laces both hands on the handle of his cane, giving the assembled group a knowing look. 

“Gentlepersons, good morning.”

“Good morning,” they chorus.

“Enough ceremony,” the king mutters. “Don’t let him bully you. You’ve all long-since proven yourselves to have fine manners. Cop a squat.”

At this language, the chief of staff points a somewhat dead-eyed gaze into the middle distance and slightly hollows his cheeks. He typically assumed the air of a man entirely unaware that his eyeballs were flexible enough to roll in the first place; this was as far as he ever got.

The staff cop their squats, except the chief of staff. 

“What’s on deck?” the king inquires, producing a pair of reading glasses and buffing them on a handkerchief. “My shadow tells me that we have a rather full slate today. Jules, you go last and stay after… I think we’ve got a pile to get through.”

“Indeed, my lord.”

The chief of staff clears his throat. “It is with regret that I say I cannot join you for the conversation. My presence is demanded elsewhere and His Majesty has graciously excused me for the duration. I leave the safe transit of this meeting in your capable hands, with—” He turns bodily to point himself towards his monarch like a needle finding North, “—one exception…”

The chief of staff bends at the waist to put his mouth by his monarch’s ear, cupping a hand to conceal his lips from the view of even these trusted eyes. The king listens with a calm, thoughtful expression to the deathly silence of his top advisor’s whispered words. The press secretary cracks a smirk, earning a pair of thin lips from the private secretary. 

Message concluded, the chief of staff reaches into his jacket and withdraws a sealed letter. He passes it seamlessly into his king’s hand and straightens up once more.

“Now,” the chief of staff says, retreating to a spot near a table set with a pitcher and glass cups. “Please excuse my absence, all, but we will surely connect later in the day. If I may beg leave of you, sire—” 

“God’s good Christ,” the king huffs. “It’s  _decades_ we’ve spent together _,_ man. Is it completely necessary for you to call me ‘sire’ with every other breath? Everyone else has the good sense to call me ‘my lord.’”

The chief of staff twitches up an eyebrow as he reaches for the pitcher and begins to pour out a glass of water. “Respectfully, sire, I prefer to use a more formal form of address.”

“Why?”

The edge of the pitcher clinks on the glass rim. The flow of water stops with the cup half-empty.

“It shows proper respect,” the chief of staff says, cleanly nipping off each consonant. He sets the pitcher down, takes a sip, and promptly pours out another iteration of the same. Cane in one hand and fresh glass in the other, he gives the room and its mute occupants a cool scan before crossing the floor to deliver the drink to the coaster before his king. 

“And as your obedient servant,” he adds, “I prefer to maintain the time-honored customs. If that doesn’t displease you, sire?”

The king looks him up and down, pressing his lips together in a sarcastic smile as the chief of staff folds both hands on his cane head once more. The director of communications puffs on his pipe and gives the director of policy a look.

The king shakes his head. “Throw a ‘my liege’ or two in now and then, would you? It’ll keep it fresh.”

The chief of staff shifts his weight to his good leg, clasping his cane as he bent at the waist and extended his bad foot forward. “So please you, my liege.”

“Get thee hence,” the king says to the chief of staff. 

The chief of staff stands and inclines his head, more seriously this time, and addresses his staff. 

“If any of you need me, you know how to contact me. Good morning.”

“Don’t make anyone cry,” the press secretary suggests.

“I can’t promise that.”

The chief of staff exits the room and closes the door behind him. The rest of the staff begin to shuffle their papers, looking for the quick notes they’d prepared for their monarch to review. 

“Perhaps we should start with communications,” the private secretary suggests.

“Certainly. But first, I have two notes,” the king says. “One, it was actually a cannon ball that took his leg out, and he lies about it constantly to keep people guessing. So far I think there are some 50 rumors in circulation. I’m trusting you all not to dull his edge with the truth, so this doesn’t leave the room, right?”

Their rapid agreements bubbles over one another. “Oh… yes, sir.” “Of course, my lord.” “Certainly, sir.” “What, a moving one?”

“Then, two… of course it’s not full of dynamite. You’d know that if you ever handled it. His cane is quite hollow and he uses it to fire blow darts.” Their king adjusts his glasses on his nose, kindly ignoring the high-pitched wheeze of the press secretary holding her face in her hands. “What’s next?”


	2. Before Dinner

“Brh-hmm,” the king intones, angling his chin in to bring his voice up from deep down in his belly. It’s a pompous, resonating timbre, perfect for a formerly-impressive and now rather dottery old crusader. All the careworn gray in his hair and beard are finally coming in handy. “Ye-es, well, I rather imagine that– well, trade routes being what they are– eh, wh… hmm, what do you think, man?”

His chief of staff tilts his head slowly to one side, fingertips stroking over and over the head of his walking stick in a gesture of nervous and probably quite subliminal fixation. When he speaks, his voice is on the far edge of respect. He hisses his sibilants and curls his lip up high beneath his right nostril. The look he gives his monarch is all acid.

“I certainly do not perceive the wisdom, sire,” he says slowly, luxuriously, “in giving away the whole cow to those who will pay for cream.”

“No,” the king says, in a less sonorous tone. “No, no, they won’t fall for that. You’re not used to performative disdain, I’m afraid. They’ll know it’s an act. Here, ah–”

The king sticks his chin out now, shoulders back, more a golden warrior than a tarnished colonel. “We hit them hard and fast and first! Our people expect nothing less – a good offense is the best defense, after all. We mustn’t lose a moment to get to the head of the fight. Why, what has the enemy got that we haven’t, and more of it? They’ll be buttered across the field come sunset.”

The chief of staff pulls his eyeglasses to the very tip of his nose and hunches almost in half over his cane. He laces both hands over the handle and quivers a little. 

“W-We-ell,” he creaks. “Care, of course, care and caution I must advise. As I re-mem-ber, sire, your blessed father, rest his noble memory, and I had a similar conversation with the p-prince, eh, the Prince Regent of Austermuhl b-back in the spring, or perhaps the fall? of ‘45. No. No, I tell a lie, was it ‘54…? I-In any case, I’m sure I have a note or two on the subject – let me fetch a boy to bring me the book…”

The king watched his chief of staff rattle through a loose-jointed walk with a roar of laughter. 

“Stop! Stop! They’ll never believe that, either. Any ambassador’s note will have said you’re sharper than that– oh, for God’s sake, stand up!”

The chief of staff straightens up and adjusts his glasses with a demure smile. The king’s private dressing chamber is empty except for them, the rest of the castle buzzing with the final touches before the banquet. The rest of the executive staff are in position, mingling and sipping wine while chatting with the guests, so it only remains for the chief of staff and the host to have a few minutes of quiet conversation as the last adjustments to the king’s costume are made.

And, apparently, the personas they will be using for the evening are decided upon.

“Damnation,” the king hums. He strokes his beard and eyeballs his faithful servant. “Harder than I thought it’d be, but then I didn’t realize I was working with one of the foremost clowns of the age.”

“Clown, sire?”

“Sire, sire. That’s what you hold onto through all these transformations, is it?”

The chief of staff bows. “Indeed, my liege.”

“There, you see it! Clownery! Foremost of the species, you are, and sharp-tongued as a minstrel. I should’ve expected nothing less, after all your years at clown college.”

“That is an unkind way to refer to Oxford University, sire.”

“I refer to your American studies.”

“Ah. Well. At the risk of exposing terrible ignorance, may I venture to ask why we would want to pretend to be anyone other than ourselves for this dinner?”

“We’re entering a nest of vipers, my man, and I mean to have them starting off on the wrong foot, even if vipers do not, strictly speaking, have a leg to stand on. Be we never so gracious, the ambassadors will savage us with poisoned pens in their missives to their masters abroad, and the visiting royalty will be even more vicious for the proximity. Let’s start them off with a spot of disinformation, first. Pretend I’m an indecisive windbag, or a glory-hound, or that you’re a doddering old fool or an insatiable opportunist. It makes it easier to catch when someone’s up to something.”

“Sire, if you haven’t already noted it I feel duty-bound to confess that I am in fact an insatiable opportunist,” his advisor says. “Perhaps not quite so stereotypically malevolent a one, but I have given deep consideration the prices for which the average grandmother can be bought and sold, on the chance that the sum would make it easier to advance my interests.”

The king snorts. “You’d sell every pound of your flesh in installments before it came to selling anyone else. No, it won’t do – you’re not as ruthless as you’d like to seem, so we’d better not play up the weakness when we try and mask it.”

The chief of staff bows again.

“We know our strengths, at least. Brains, charm, great senses of humor,” the king lists.

“Good people,” the advisor puts in.

“The finest, but don’t tell them I said that or they’ll stop trying to impress. Army in pretty good condition and no more than the usual numbers of bandits on our trade routes. And we’re devilishly handsome.”

“That is a plus,” the chief of staff agreed thinly. 

“I suppose we’re a little proud, at that,” the king says, “but it’s hardly so easily exploitable. We cut each other down to size often enough.”

“True.”

“So, with that in mind, what other weaknesses don’t we have?” the king asks. He turns to a nearby mirror and adjusts the heavy seal of state that clips his ermine cape to his back. “Bankruptcy! Let’s grub for money.”

“I don’t think so. If it would please you, sire, I can send out a hint or two that we’re in dire straits, although I hesitate to throw the markets into such a panic over a lark at supper.”

“Hell’s bells, man, what’s the point of ruling a country if you can’t pull it on a string now and then—”

“In any case, if you really wanted to sell the idea of our imminent impoverishment, you’d be better suited to spending more conspicuously than heretofore.”

“Fine, fine. Raging xenophobia?”

“The negative consequences outweigh the benefits of an initial piece of wrong-footedness, I’m afraid.”

The king grumbles in agreement and the chief of staff approaches him slowly. He steps into the king’s bubble and reaches out to twitch the golden seal to sit on the dead center of his monarch’s chest. 

“We know heartlessness and myopia won’t do, since you can’t act the part. What does that leave? Sexual intrigues?”

The advisor smooths away an errant wrinkle in the fine court costume. “A classic. Name the girl.”

“No, no. Between us, I mean.”

The chief of staff’s jaw drops. “Us?”

“Of course! Haven’t you heard that we live in each other’s pockets? And who knows what we were up to in our little private moment in the dressing room before supper.” The king bobs his eyebrows. “The scandal of it all!”

“I– sire, I hardly imagine–”

“Oh, come, come. I have seen you lie like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. Where is the fabled serpent of the senate now?”

The chief of staff goes still for a moment, hand moving slowly to adjust the drape of the fabric. He takes a shuddering breath and lets his fingertips run over the raised rubies and golden medallions on the seal of state, resting at last on the great lion’s face that is their nation’s emblem. The chief of staff looks into his king’s face, his eyes deep and dark and blazing hot. He drags those eyes slowly down; slowly back up again, scorching where they linger. He takes his lips into his mouth and presses them against each other, pursing them ever so slightly, and moves a step closer to his lord and master.

“That very serpent is before you, sire,” the chief of staff murmurs. “I am yours to command, body and soul. Only tell me where to bite.”

“Remarkable!” the king chuckles. “I told you you could do it!”

The chief of staff quirks an eyebrow and takes his caressing hand away, folding it beneath its twin on the head of his cane. “Thank you, sire, but I regret to say that it is a taxing performance. I could not possibly maintain it for long.”

“But it’s so convincing! You’re quite sure? Not possibly?”

“Not possibly. They would see through it when I begin to laugh.”

The king rumbles out a laugh of his own. “You dare to tell your king that the thought of him in bed make you laugh, you saucy fellow?”

“More a nervous tittering, sire, undoubtably caused by feelings of inadequacy.”

“Shocking cheek!”

“Yes. Pray overlook the weakness as quite God-given. My creator did not weave me to make a fabric appropriate for a member of the privy counsel. I must find other ways to make myself useful to you, my liege.”

“Oh well. Perhaps over the fish course you can drop a hint of those bedroom eyes, then, and see if anyone picks it up. We’ll know who’s watching too closely when it comes back to our ears, hey?”

“Indeed. If there are no other masks you would like me to adopt, may we proceed with the evening, sire?”

“Yes, I’m afraid we must. Let the vipers have a look at all our weaknesses just as they are. I suppose it shall be enough that we at least know where the cracks are.”

Walking a respectful five paces behind his king, the chief of staff permits himself a grimace. He grips his cane hard with the fingers that had touched the body-warmed lion’s head and sets his teeth. Humiliating. Foolish. Stupid. Pathetic.

It will be easier once he’s surrounded by his staff, once his monarch is in the great hall. The king sucks all the oxygen out of a room, including that from the lungs of his interlocutors, and it’s much easier for the chief of staff to be discreet when he isn’t the only one who’s gasping for breath.

No one must know where the cracks are. He will see to that personally.


	3. State Dinner

By the time the third course has arrived, he has come to see the usefulness of the king’s idea. He'd thhought his king’s interest in starting their noble guests off with a passel of wrong impressions was only a freak of humor, but as the chief of staff speaks with the ordinarily quite circuitous ambassador of Austermuhl and finds her disconcertingly straightforward, he decides that there is stratedy in lowering a baited rod and seeing what bites.

Half-listening to the ambassador, he glances up at the royal table. He and his king are not seated near one another – shocking breach of manners it would be, to seat a landless servant among royalty. Even if his presence would not offend his king, others would interpret it as a slap in the face. You can’t spell “castle” without “caste.”

The table sits on a platform slightly above the level of the rest of the room, where his king can survey anything he wants quite easily. He can also, the chief of staff has pointed out, be surveyed himself.

The king is deep in the business of chatting with his guests, showing no signs of the bluster or guile he’d been practicing in the dressing room. There’s no need for reciprocation for this ruse to work. The chief of staff doesn’t wait to have his king’s eyes; instead he permits himself the luxury of looking, examining slowly the fine brocade costume, the strong and agile hands, and the breadth of his shoulders, measured in a dizzying number of golden inches by the great seal. The chief of staff thinks, distantly, that he must be rather hot in all that.

His king finally seems to feel his gaze, and turns to look out over the crowd with one little line between his eyebrows. He has to search the room for a moment or two, but finally the king picks him out. The king blinks, furrowing one eyebrow in question.

In response, the chief of staff holds his king’s eyes as he sets the fingertips of one hand to the rim of his wine glass. He strokes the smooth edge with a featherlight touch, first one circle and then another in the opposite direction.

It takes three passes for his king to realize what he’s doing. His eyes blow wide. The chief of staff does not smile but a muscle in his jaw pings with the strain of keeping it down. Instead, he blinks very slowly, twice, closing his watchful eyes and opening them again in perfect serenity. He kisses his king as cats kiss.

The king stares, a schoolboy smile beginning to tug at his mouth. At the sight of it, the chief of staff stops stroking the glass and turns his gaze away as slowly as he can bear with his heart thundering in his throat. His king’s smile is beautiful, and sly, and happy. It makes his fingertips throb.

The chief of staff lifts the warm glass to his lips and takes a mouthful of watered wine. He tries to swallow around the hot knot in his throat.

There. He has pleased his king. He cannot always in good conscience do that, because the world is a complicated place. More often than not the practicalities of their positions make it necessary for him to tell unpleasant truths, and he does not coat them in honey, because — and bless the man for this — he doesn’t need to. He is glad he pleased his king, right now, when it took something so small and it amused his lord so much.

He won’t do it again. It is one thing to be pleased to have pleased, but he enjoyed that too much. He is allowed to look; he is not allowed to think, and he came so very perilously close to thinking.

He was thinking in the dressing room, back when the scheme was hatched. For a moment the temptation of it had gripped him and he’d found the thought intoxicating.

Imagine it: It would serve his king’s pleasure for his devoted servant to look at his king with lust in his heart. To please his master, he was to recall all the moments he’d wished to turn one of his whispers of information into a gentle kiss, there just behind his king’s ear, and simply keep kissing his way across his face until he reached his mouth. Or remember how many cold mornings he’s daydreamed about a strong arm to support his weight or warm fingers to rub deep into the gnarled muscle of his thigh. Or consider, with the man himself in the room before him, precisely where he’d need to plant his hands on his king’s chest to steady himself as he rode him, rumpling his fine sheets while his king held his hips and his gaze with such adoration, such devotion—

He would never have such permission ever again. His king would never want to see those things in his eyes, except tonight.

Yet there is no release in this. He’s controlled himself in deathly silence for years and now that energy can’t possibly come out in safe little bursts once he lets it go. For too many years he’s kept it all pressed down, tight and small, until it hardened into something like a diamond — something that can be safely handled without leaving a smudge. Now his feelings are something he can shave and cut and see through, clear as tears, and turn at will to focus or fragment his gaze. He has fixed what he feels in a permanent setting, harmless and immovable, merely a part of his accoutrement.

He can’t smear his king with grime from the coal scuttle. He can’t pelt the man with handfuls of diamonds.

He can look, but he can’t think; and once he thinks, he can’t look at his king again.

He takes a sip of water to cool his blood and tunes back into the conversation with the ambassador of Austermuhl. He runs his attention over the last few minutes of the rather one-sided conversation, picking up the thread just in time to see the ambassador’s face turn expectant.

“Make I take your silence for consent, dear sir?” she asks. “You have no objections to a trade of ports?”

“None whatsoever, actually,” he replies. He volunteers a flattening of his lips at the ambassador’s surprised expression. “Dear lady, you’ll make me think I have a reputation for mindless obstructionism. We are allies, after all — and long has my master been interested in a more direct route to the spice countries, as I am sure yours has wished for finer fishing. Can it be so surprising that the best for your excellent nation is frequently the best for mine?”

“Certainly not,” the ambassador smiles, “but I had expected you to make me squirm a bit more. I’m glad you see so clearly the benefits to us both.”

“You caught me at supper, you see. I consider sadism shockingly bad table manners. Of course, I have no authority to effect my desires unilaterally. I am a mere functionary, you understand.”

“A mechanical,” the ambassador says. She smiles at him.

“A cog in the machinery of the state,” he replies, and lifts his glass to her. “But I will find a place for the thought to enter into an appropriate conversation.”

“That much is worth anyone else’s promise of immediate action. But there is another trade I should like to make, if I can, and I am sure you are the man to get it done expeditiously. I have heard that there is an impressive theatrical performance going on in town. You are aware that my masters are very fond of theatre?”

“I remember it vividly.” A whole festival in Austermuhl, dear god, and ten-hour days in a box seat. The enforced stillness had him reaching for the royal sword to hack his leg to the bare bone. “Of course we are happy to coordinate a visit as part of the show’s tour, if it proves worthy. The private secretary is the one to ask about its quality; I have barely the attention span to watch a horse race these days, I’m afraid. But access is no object. Speak to my office in the morning and we shall arrange an occasion for you to watch the show and to speak with the manager about their travel dates.”

“You are everything obliging,” the ambassador smiles. The chief of staff places a hand on his chest and bends over it, already wondering just what cipher he had better use, if he wants to use these actors to convey a message to distant ears in Austermuhl; and more importantly, which codebreakers he will use to decode what comes back across the border.

They speak for another moment or two, largely ignoring the young woman to the ambassador’s left hand. She is a new face in court, an assistant to the Austermuhlian delegation. With half an eye the chief of staff has watched her slowly pick her way through the salad and the fish. She debones her quail with the delicacy of an anatomist. Her hands are so steady that she must be destined for either medicine or assassination.

The ambassador sets down her napkin and rises to her feet.

“Pray excuse me for a moment, sir. I must leave you in the care of my companion for a moment.”

He grapples his cane beneath himself and stands to see her off, bowing his head a little as she goes. He watches her walk, observing the self-satisfied bounce of her knees as she heads for the mouth of the great hall. He takes a look around. To his gratification he sees the director of policy catch the ambassador's movement and track it for a second or two before turning back to her own conversation.

The chief of staff rather hopes the ambassador is off to send word to her own monarch, rather than just to relieve herself. Let him have more complication. Tonight and this week he wants to occupy his mind entirely and feel himself stretched thin, taxed to the height of his abilities. It takes a small thing to please his king; it takes a delicate and dangerous thing to have his respect.

He smiles thinly at the assistant and scans the room for another moment, having taken all the trouble to get upright, and slowly turns his gaze towards the north of the room and the royal table.

His stomach flips.

His king is looking right at him, eyes half-lidded, seeming bored — if not for the unabashedly lascivious quirk of his lips. The chief of staff can’t help but shoot a glance over his shoulder, trying to determine at just whom his king is looking, but there is no one behind him.

The chief of staff makes himself look back at his king, finding the wicked smile has grown at the sight of his advisor’s shock. A bolt of heat sears through his belly and forces a hot twitch to pull from his lower back and forward, and he clutches the handle of his cane tighter. He can feel the pressure of the king’s gaze as it runs over him; he’s not so much being undressed with his eyes as groped through his clothes. His king wracks him down and up, withholding further expression until he reaches his advisor’s eyes and leans back in his seat, stretching comfortably back to give him a look of absolute, sore-muscled, well-fucked satisfaction.

He is not strong enough; his gaze drops first, and it’s a mistake, because it falls on his king’s hands. With two fingers he’s been stroking the stem of his wine glass, up and down, just the slightest bit of pressure, just the way his devoted servant likes to be touched when he’s wringing the last of an orgasm out of his aching cock, clenching helplessly around whichever toy has fucked him to tears.

He sits with a thump.

“Sir?” asks the ambassador’s assistant.

He breathes in slow through his nose. The heat in his eyes, the approval, dear God; he needs to be bled, immediately, or he will blush and never stop blushing.

“Pardon me,” he says. “It’s absolutely nothing.”

The ambassador’s assistant holds a doubtful silence. The chief of staff ignores it until he absolutely must look at her again. In truth he doesn’t dare to, but he cannot hide like a child for the rest of the meal. There is still so much work to be done.

“Forgive my inattention,” he says, smoothing his brow. “Were you saying something?’

 _“Does it hurt?”_ the ambassador’s assistant asks him. He struggles for a moment to place the language — it’s a kind of pigdin Greek.

The chief of staff lifts his eyebrows, surprised. He only kept up his Attic Greek for literature; it shall have to suffice. _“… if you must know, yes–”_

_“I mean, does it hurt to be so in love with your lord and master?”_

The chief of staff stops a gasp before it reaches beyond the sniff stage. With fire still roaring in his veins he must somehow be cold. He scans the immediate surroundings to see who is hearing this, who is listening. Through gritted teeth, he hisses, _“Do not–”_

 _“Accuse you? Oh, come off it.”_ The assistant shakes her head. _“It’s obvious to anyone who’s been around you long enough, and we see you for weeks out of every month.”_

Oh, how this will delight his king. ‘Sire, it took only 40 minutes for someone to lose their manners enough to confront me with my devastating desire for you. Your sommelier is to be commended.’ How he will laugh.

There will be no second look over dessert. Instead, he will do this.

 _“I was going to say, don’t mention it out loud,”_ he replies. _“And if it will shut you up, yes. It kills me every day.”_

He is acting, and yet this is the truth, and this is not a release, either; no more than the permission to gaze at his king with all his lust and all his love pouring out of his eyes. He is spitting stones at this young woman, and they scrape his tongue as they come out, glittering in the candle light.

_“I almost want to die of it. Some days I want to do nothing but run away, but I cannot. He has his role. I have mine. The kingdom requires both of us, in our proper places, to prosper. And as there is nothing I would not do for my kingdom, I stay, and I suffer.”_

When he dies, they will take out his heart and his brain, and wash them, and preserve them for study. They’ll filet them both down into little discs and peer at them under microscopes, and what they will see there are the smallest, secret, intimate portions of his being; all of them still in love. And he, wherever he is, the him that may live on — that too will still be in love. What would be the point of running away and putting a continent, an ocean, a galaxy between him and his love?

 _“So, yes. Between that and the leg, and much more besides, I hurt.”_ He gives the assistant a stare that would melt a basilisk. The press secretary has told him it could stare down God, and this young woman is no god. In his own language, he says, “I hope your curiosity is satiated?”

She lowers her eyes to her plate. She seems no longer so pleased with her own perspicacity.

He waters his wine and takes a gulp. He needs a clear head, if he’s to corral his staff and his sovereign lord into the king’s private study for a post-dinner briefing. While everyone else descends into the Bacchanal, it is his peculiar privilege and pleasure to cozily cloister with the most trusted people in his life and discuss, in plain speech, how they are going to do the very best they can for their country, on the backs of these sparkling and silly guests.

To accomplish that, he can be burdened neither by a head full of wine nor a heart full of lust. He picks up his knife and fork and goes back to work on the quail, needing more sustenance if he’s going to survive the night.

After a few bites, he forces a look up and manages to spot the director of policy staring at him. She catches his gaze and flexes her eyes at him; he glances at another table to see the director of communications watching him as well, clenching his teeth around his unlit pipe. Both have been watching? That’s unlike them – generally they are preoccupied. It’s their habit to try and discreetly fling peas at one another during these meals.

His lips twitch at the sight of their concern. He tips his head slowly to one side, ‘what can you do?’, and he moves his (and their) attention to the press secretary as she works on the Mordrovian delegation. It’s going to turn into a duel. It generally does.

Jules and Amelius follow his gaze; Jules returns it with a hint of skepticism, but Amelius just smiles and twitches a nod. The chief of staff turns his head to the left to slide his eyes away, but by that point there’s no where to go but north, and north…

That’s where his king sits.

Helpless, he looks at him.

His king has straightened up a bit, head tilted and nodding along with the words of the Prince Regent sat beside him, but his gaze is fixed on his chief of staff. Their eyes meet and the king sweeps his eyebrows together and up.

The chief of staff’s heart pounds. He saw him sit too hard. He thinks his advisor is in pain. Naked concern, bright as sunlight, shines out of his handsome face. All for him.

The chief of staff’s knife slips and shrieks across the china. He drops his eyes and can only feel the beating of his heart, too hot and too wet in the cage of his ribs.

_Oh, my prince._

Silence falls on his table at the shriek. The chief of staff sets down his knife and fakes a hand tremor, seizing his own wrist to steady it.

“A thousand pardons,” he murmurs, with the grace of a man in dire agony and at pains to hide the incivility of it. The table pauses for an instant more, before politely resuming their conversations.

Across the room, his king is reaching for the napkin in his lap, about to get to his feet. Horrified, he catches the private secretary’s eye and shakes his head a few millimeters. She hops to it, heading over with a great big smile to speak to her monarch and keep him in that damn chair.

His king looks over at him as the private secretary whispers in his ear. The chief of staff wobbles out a brave, grim little smile. The king scowls at him, squinting, as if to say he had better not be overtaxing his strength, as if the point of the night is not overdoing it.

Bless him. He really thinks something quite innocent is wrong.

The chief of staff turns his attention back to the quail. Two more courses. Then he’ll limp over, exaggerating his walk, and deftly draw his master away to a room where they can be alone. Never mind that they shall be in the company of four trusted friends. Tongues will wag.

What a scandal.


	4. Debrief

“Before we begin the meeting,” the chief of staff says, glancing around the room, “I would like to have everyone mention a highlight from the summit.”

The director of policy, the director of communications, the private secretary, the press secretary, and the chief of staff himself are sitting in the king’s personal study. His Majesty is expected at any moment, but for the last few hours he has been out riding. The long days of formal diplomacy and court dress have more than earned the king a few hours of pleasure, and the chief of staff and the private secretary saw to it that all of this morning and most of the afternoon was left for him to pursue his own will.

The door to the king’s formal office is half open. It is there that they invite foreign dignitaries and members of the cabinet for private meetings. The room is beautiful, for what it is: all cream carpet and golden drapes, with a pair of red-striped sofas and a view out over the king’s personal garden. The desk is an enormous, imposing altar of dark wood, on which sacrifices of policy were daily laid. The chief of staff, who could not be said to be without a few pet obsessions, personally saw to it that the desk was cleaned and polished every day.

The private study, by contrast, looked like a dining room, mostly because of the eight-seater dining table that dominated the space. Here were all the books one might wish to have within arm’s reach, as well as maps, globes, dartboards, the latest vote counts in the senate, portraits too embarrassing or poorly-executed to be hung in public, fatuous notes and cartoons scratched on scrap paper, several changes of clothes, and a small wine rack. The slender windows look out on the rest of the garden, hidden from direct view from the outside by a line of shady trees.

The private study is the private secretary’s bête noire, owing to the massive snowdrifts of loose paper piled up on the table and the general attitude of cultivated disarray. The chief of staff protects it like a nature preserve. It is all-essential that there be some place, some one small and contained place, where their master could be messy.

Currently, the room is full of four people at the top of their professions, all very silent at the prospect of having to halt business to share their feelings.

The chief of staff lowers his eyelids.

“I will start calling on people,” he warns.

“I’ll start,” the press secretary says, taking it on the chin. “My duel with the Mordrovian ambassador was a complete success. He chose scimitars this year, which I admit I hadn’t been brushing up on but turned out to be good fun nevertheless. After the duel the old softie almost couldn’t wait to schedule a meeting with us about the idea to connect some of the roads between the east country and their inland border. In conclusion, the physician says I’ll keep the hand.”

“You will not keep the hand,” the chief of staff mutters, eyes on his own notes. “You’ll send it back to the Mordrovian ambassador immediately. Thank you. Amelius?”

“We did better on the canapés this year.”

Jules gasped. “Hey, he took mine!”

“Amelius, I am going to come back to you, and after exercising my patience so generously I have no doubt that you will have something rich and revealing to share. Next?”

“His Majesty told me on several occasions that he had enjoyed this international convening more than the last several meetings put together,” the private secretary said, paging through her notes. “He said it was fun. He was very entertained. I think he enjoyed the occasion because of the way we handled his schedule this year. Having that extra day is hard on us but it’s so much easier than trying to break the days into 15-minute increments for him.”

“Noted,” the chief of staff says. “I am not sure we can always manage it, but–”

“And he liked the gossip this year, too,” the private secretary added. At a nod from the chief of staff, she started ticking items off on her fingers.

“The princess of Hyperabayl and her intended are in one of their off-again cycles, and the fashion world was particularly concerned whether anyone would actually be able to display their finery at the royal wedding in six months. It’s put a run on removable sleeves, if that’s of economic interest, sir… something about turning fancy dress into cocktail attire. Then the pages of the delegation from Ryzantine went streaking through the royal fountain and skinny-dipped in the moat. And apparently a member of the executive staff was heard to shout, ‘Hey! You can’t say that about our dads!’ before lunging for the Mordrovian ambassador’s left kidney.”

“Apparently?”

“I couldn’t watch, sir. I had to look through my fingers.”

The press secretary looks around and speaks in an awed whisper. “Who was that masked man?”

“Out with it,” the chief of staff says to her.

“Oh, just some rude language, sir. Nothing to turn your head.”

“Maeve.”

The press secretary grins hard, but it has no effect. “I can’t talk about this with you, sir, it’s–”

“You can, you must, and you shall, I’m afraid. What was said?”

Maeve goes pink. “Um. Just some aspersions on the habits native to your bed chamber, sir. And, before you think I’m overreacting and needlessly defending your honor, also, ah, the king’s…?”

The room holds its breath. The chief of staff is very quiet for a long moment, staring at Maeve, and when he moves it is to scribble something down, unseen, on his notepad.

“Very good,” he says at last. “We defend our king’s reputation without hesitation. Thank you, Maeve. That is a better use of your time than indulging the Mordrovian ambassador’s ludicrous preconditions to negotiation.”

A universal sigh. “Thank you, sir.”

“But ‘dads’?”

“Well, you are!” Maeve insists.

“That’s the real highlight,” Amelius snorts. “Are you our new father, in point of fact? We could’ve gotten in on the game, or at least been prepared to deal with the consequences.”

“I do not have the pleasure of grasping your meaning.”

“Half of everybody was trying to find out how long the two of you had been, ah… ‘snuggling,’ is the term I’m going to use for it. I was flat-footed at first and then just starting saying that my office did not speak on matters unrelated to affairs of state, which in hindsight,” he boomed, raising his voice over the nervous giggling, “was infelicitously expressed. But I left it at that.”

“Ah. Yes. Snuggling.” The chief of staff shuffled his papers and stacked them to form a crisp edge.

“Sir, for the last two decades the communications office has been fending off questions about when the king is finally going to marry. In the past two days, the total number of inquiries has doubled,” Amelius says. “With permission to speak plainly, sir, what the hell is going on?”

“Absolutely nothing, I assure you. A bad joke. His Majesty developed a scheme to have us put a duplicitous foot forward during the occasion. I turned down all of his suggestions for false-flag operations, but one seems to have stuck, somehow.”

“Snuggling stuck? What were the other options?”

“That, or bankruptcy, or some third unlikely thing. I forget which. None of them should ever have been initiated. I certainly have no idea what happened.” The chief of staff cleared his throat. “But once it had happened, you should’ve been alerted. I apologize for the communication gap.”

“It’s hit a nerve, sir. When it comes to the affections of the people, you are not…”

“Popular?”

“I was going to say ‘beloved,’ but… yes.”

“How surprising that I am not kindly remembered from my days as a senator.”

“You know, I’ve always been curious. Why are you called the serpent of the senate, sir?”

“Because it is an insulting name, and there are those who would wish to insult me. Let’s move on to Jules.”

“Sure. I heard it was because you’re cold-blooded,” Jules says, grinning, “and you squeeze the life out of the weak.”

“That’s odd,” says Maeve, “I heard it was because he gets around really fast for having only one foot.”

“No, no. I heard it was because he’s hard to charm and risky to handle.”

“And I heard nothing of the sort, sir,” sniffs the private secretary. “I am wholly ignorant of this story.”

“As it should be,” the chief of staff drawls. “Amelius, with regard to any assignation between me and the king, you ought to dismiss it as a sick rumor, planted by the mischievous to infuriate the impressionable. His Majesty is celibate for the sake of the state and his sacrifice is a noble one. Even I, twisted as I have been considered, would not presume to sully that. I want you and Maeve to refute utterly the notion that His Majesty has any awareness of this slanderous fantasy. The very idea of him participating in such a liaison is demeaning.”

Maeve’s expression wilts at the edges, but Amelius simply sits back in his seat. “I will relay that response, sir. But it’s a shame to hear we’re not to expect a happy announcement.”

The chief of staff gave him a dry look. “Not until my retirement.”

“You’re going to die at your desk, sir.”

“Thank you, Maeve. That means a great deal.”

The private secretary shuffled her notes. “If we’re done with Amelius’ interjection, that’s all I have from the summit, sir. His Majesty may have more.”

“Yes, I have generally found that he does. I will anticipate an earful when he arrives. Jules?”

“Can I still use the canapé one? Or repeat the one about Maeve? Because it really was a great moment.”

“No.”

“Aww, c’mon, dad…”

“Did I hear my name?” booms a voice from the formal office. The staff rise to their feet, the chief of staff coming up last of all, both hands pressed to the table.

The king appears in the doorway, a brilliant smile spread across his face. His eyes are bright with fresh air, his hair tossled, and his breath coming a bit too fast. Still in his riding gear, he pulls off his gloves and stuffs them in his jacket. He walks into the room, seeming to steam like the horse he’d ridden, and the muscles of his thighs flex against the soft calfskin of his riding breeches.

“Sit, sit, sit,” he instructs.

The chief of staff sits down first of all. “Good evening, sire. I trust your ride was enjoyable?”

“Oh, yes. Good to get out of these walls. Are we debriefing? Did Maeve already tell you what she’d shouted at the Mordrovian ambassador?”

“We were just admiring her wit,” the chief of staff murmurs.

The king claps his advisor on the shoulder. “We raised some good kids.”

“Sire, I am sure you are aware that most of them have real parents still living.”

“Right, and here we are. Just look at them. Jules has her father’s beautiful eyes. And Maeve got my strong chin.”

The chief of staff covers his face with a hand. “This meeting is adjourned.”

“Hey! I didn’t get to give my highlight!”

“And we didn’t get to all the rest of the things we need to talk about after the highlights.”

“Sire,” says the chief of staff, “would you like to sit in on a meeting while fresh from the stables, or should we consider the business completed until tomorrow morning, when you may be more comfortable?”

“Are you saying I smell of horse?”

The chief of staff held his peace.

The king looks to his private secretary. “Do I smell of horse?”

The private secretary looks at him with big eyes. “Why, Your Majesty, I–”

“Maeve, do I smell of horse?”

“Distinctly but not unpleasantly, pop.”

“Right. This meeting is adjourned. See you all in the morning.”

Just before midnight, a letter from Austermuhl arrives. The messenger will not rest until he is taken into the presence of the chief of staff, and only then will he accept a meal and a drink in the kitchen.

The chief of staff is still awake, and at work, and immediately puts everything else aside to translate the message out of the ambassador’s cipher and into his own language. Dread seeks to speed his pen, but care keeps him slow. It is terrible news, if she had not waited for the acting troupe to cross the border before dropping him a note.

Three lines on paper. The ambassador’s hand is hasty on her page, and his own letters are formed no better as the meaning becomes clear.

With the letter translated, the chief of staff reaches for his cane and grapples his way to his feet. He stuffs the letters into his pocket and hurries for the door of his temporary chambers. In the aftermath of the summit, there is still plenty of cleaning up to do and he has not yet resumed his own residence outside the castle walls. Moments like this show how convenient his temporary lodgings are. He runs as much as he can to his king’s bedchamber and accosts the guard there in terms so blistering that the man decides he is no fit barrier to stand between his king and news of terrible international dispute, and so lets the chief of staff inside.

It is dark. “Sire?”

“Mmph.”

“Your Majesty, I beg your pardon, but I must tell you something.”

“Mrgh… I call this verisimilitude, old man,” the king grumbles. A match hisses and the chief of staff sees him lighting the candle on his nightstand before slowly pushing himself to sit upright. He is rumpled and sleep-warm and astonishingly bare-chested in the spring air, handsomer than anyone should be at such an hour. He pulls a large hand through his hair and his skin looks golden in the candlelight.

The chief of staff hates himself. “My liege?”

“Slithering into my bedchamber in the middle of the night, and without even our international friends to benefit from the display.” The king gives him a sleepy smirk. “Very hot stuff.”

He feels the dark air of the bedroom brush cool on his burning cheeks. He shakes his head and edges closer to the bed and his master.

“Sire,” he says quietly. “Forgive my impertinence, but our friends in Austermuhl have a direly urgent request.”

The king wakes up that much more and frowns. He waves a hand to draw the chief of staff near. “What’s wrong?”

The chief of staff passes his translation and the ambassador’s original letter into the king’s hands. He leans hard on his cane. “Sire, it is likely that without intervention the princess of Austermuhl will be married to the duke of Horuel.”

“What?” the king roars. His eyes flash in the dim light and he glares at the chief of staff. “Over my dead body, she will! Poor little Albertina – I’ve known the girl from a pup! The prince regent can’t marry a child off to a monster like Horuel!”

The chief of staff nods. Everyone had heard about Horuel and its dukes. It was a vile place, far out in the north and east, where the sun disappeared for six months out of the year and the cold left nothing for the four or five noble families to do but find strange ways to exhaust their imaginations. And with no senate, nor free courts, nor a constitution, there was little enough to stop them from doing anything they wanted. To anyone at all.

Shaken travelers recounted roads fringed with the naked bodies of servants frozen to death in ugly poses, packs of wolves bred for lives of starvation and sudden savagery, sobs and whispers coming from inside the walls of castles in the dead of night.

It was no place for a princess. No place for anyone. One had to be a beast of another order to ship a human person to that land of monsters.

The chief of staff clears his throat. “You last saw her some time ago, sire. The princess Albertina has turned 26 this winter.”

“Barely a woman, then, and certainly unready to handle that kind of horror! Absolutely not — how many wives has the brute had?”

“Sire, there is no true consensus about the duke’s behavior, but—”

“All those lesser noblemen’s missing daughters don’t seem to count for much, then! What can her idiot uncle want with Horuel, anyway?”

“If he has little affection for his niece, the prince regent may consider it an advantageous match,” the chief of staff says thinly. “A union with Horuel could prove valuable in the summer months, when their Arctic port is thawed. There are few other nations that can or will do business with Horuel… he would have a direct line. He must feel it a stable investment, thinking that it is harder to lose an Austermuhlian princess than a Horuelian countess.”

“Damn his eyes. Listen, the ambassador of Austermuhl can count on us for anything she needs to get Albertina out of her situation.”

“Sire–”

“Anything. You understand me?”

The chief of staff blinks. “I understand you, sire—”

“Good!” The king shoves the letters back towards him. “I don’t care what you need to do; I’ll go along with it. Just rescue that poor girl before it’s too late.”

The chief of staff carefully folds the letters and slips them into his jacket pocket. He has never been in his master’s bedroom before. It is unlikely that he ever shall again. He is nearby when his king is at work, and his king is not the sort of man to issue his orders from a heap of soft mattresses and fine linens. He’s active, dynamic, upright.

The sheets make a whispering sound as they move against the king’s skin. Somewhere a woman is in peril of a lifetime of misery; yet that sound is what fills his head now, and the sight of his king in this attitude makes heat curl in his belly. The chief of staff hates himself.

“I will think of something, sire,” the chief of staff says. “I will broach a few possibilities in our morning meeting, first thing.”

“Good. Thank you, old man. Anything more, then?”

“No, Your Majesty. I apologize for disturbing your rest.”

“Rejected. I’d have been appalled if you didn’t grab me first thing, when that came into your hands. Can you get to the door without the light?”

“I will manage. I am bold to wish you a good night, Your Majesty.”

His king lets out a gruff noise of agreement and puffs out the candle. For one moment they are alone, together, motionless in the dark. Then the chief of staff turns and walks slowly to the door.

He knows what the ambassador is proposing. Praying for. Her letter was unsubtle, full of dread, a genuine expression of fear for a cherished friend.

_The duke of Horuel has asked the princess’ hand in marriage. If another suitor is not found in ten days, the prince will consent to the match._

_Please help her._

There is a way to rescue the princess. The thought of it turns his stomach to lead, and he carried the weight with him out of his king’s bedroom and back towards his office, where he lights another set of candles and starts to brew another pot of coffee.

He writes down his first solution, the strong one, the best and the likeliest one to persuade the prince regent. He must get it down on paper and out of his head if he is to have room for any other thoughts — but he covers the line with an envelope, as if seeing it could keep it from being real. As if he could bury the possibility once more.

But the possibility is here, in the air of his office, and it exists as a shared thought between himself and the ambassador of Austermuhl. It is real. It is already gaining shape.

One way or another, Amelius will be writing a happy announcement sooner than he’d thought.


	5. Princess Albertina

On the morning of the first day, they send a letter to Austermuhl. It includes an invitation and a sizable hint.

“It’s nothing permanent,” the king says with an expansive smile that doesn’t conceal the way his thick eyebrows stay snarled above his worried eyes. “We’re just buying a bit of time, that’s all. Give the prince regent something else to think about before he starts thinking Horuel is the best anyone can do for the girl.”

Maeve and the private secretary each cringe a smile. This is playing with fire. Their king is a single man, dedicated to the well-being of his country and too comfortable in his bachelorhood to have pursued marriage in any serious way before now. They have never needed a political marriage — until now, every problem that would’ve been solved by a match had been circumvented years prior to the would-be crisis.

A young bride would throw all of that into flux. There could even be a baby, a new heir. The king has niece that has stood to inherit the throne for the last 15 years. She lives in another country, at present, with her mother, the king’s sister.

Even the smoothest scenario threatens war.

“We are promising nothing,” the chief of staff says. His eyes are as cold and fixed as a reptile’s. “We are only opening a conversation.”

The king lays a hand on the chief of staff’s shoulder and gives him a squeeze. “But we’ll have to give up our little game in the meanwhile, I suppose. Rather a shame! We could’ve kept gossip mills churning at top speed.”

A muscle pings in the chief of staff’s jaws. “I am sure we will find another way to amuse ourselves, sire.”

Amelius, not necessarily a superstitious man by nature, blows a smoke ring and tilts an eye to consider its color. Grey, the shape close-coiled in the still room. Hm.

On the morning of the second day, a letter arrives expressing acceptance and notifying them that the royal party from Austermuhl will be crossing the border in a few hours’ time. A few hours beyond that, the household displays itself to greet the prince regent of Austermuhl and the princess Albertina.

Albertina is a grown woman, and she looks at the world with a grown woman’s eyes. Her round face shines in the warmth of their fine spring weather. Her hair is a dark forest of curls and her big belly, proud bust, and wide hips are wrapped in a green brocade gown from which she probably can’t wait to be released.

The king greets her like a boisterous uncle and marches about with her hand tucked in the crook of his elbow. The prince regent, a blotchy and soft-faced man, is hooked on the opposite arm and the king drags them along, setting his body in-between and wishing them each hearty appetites and a willingness to be entertained. Ten steps back, the chief of staff trails behind the royal party with the ambassador of Austermuhl, their voices lost in some near-silent conversation. The ambassador’s assistant walks after them.

Albertina has said nothing yet, but her smile is sly and her face is thoughtful even as she gazes over the receiving line. In the sunshine, her eyes are hazel flecked with gold.

“Dibs,” Maeve mutters to the private secretary. She hip-checks her out of the way to stand in front of her in the receiving line, armed with a big smile.

“Oh! As if you’ve got a chance!” the private secretary hisses back.

“Yah, I know, she’s going to fall for you the second she sees you, so stand back. I called dibs.”

Albertina smiles as Maeve bows and kisses her hand, and she graciously returns a nod to the private secretary’s deep curtsey.

“I wish you wouldn’t say things like that, Maeve,” she mumbles as the royal party moves on.

“There’s no more graceful way of saying ‘dibs,’ Tels.”

“Etelia.”

“Gesundheit.”

Etelia clenches both fists and watches the procession ahead, waiting until she can fly to the king’s side once more and resume her station. “I mean flirting in opposite directions at the same time. No one will think you’re sincere if you always do that.”

“They’re right, though.”

Etelia clicks her tongue and falls into step with the rest of the household staff.

Inside the castle and the private dining room, the ambassador and the chief of staff evaporate, the latter giving his staff an indefinable look that must mean more than just ‘keep watch.’ It turns out that all they can do is ‘keep watch’ however; the prince regent is casting glances about himself and sticking pins in the king.

“You eat among your servants?” the prince regent inquires. Etelia stands just behind the dinner table, on hand for anything His Majesty may require. 

“Oh, yes.”

“All of them?” He’s scanning the room for the chief of staff and not seeing him. He must see that the ambassador is gone too. Etelia pinches her fingers.

“Most of the time, yes. We’re quite louche and uninhibited here, but it’s the only way to keep everyone happy. Made an exception for you this time,” the king says, gesturing out at the table full of minor nobility, “but I really can’t keep a full court going all year round. I haven’t the energy for it. My staff, however, have very little choice but to have dinner with me most nights.”

“Charming. So provincial. You’ll excuse us for showing up so suddenly after your letter,” the prince regent says. “But we were eager to follow up on reports from my ambassador.”

“Were you now? Another glass, Albertina? It’s a long road from there to here, no wonder if you’re parched. There you are.”

“Yes,” the prince regent says, lifting his eyebrows significantly. “I had been given to understand that your household has undergone a few changes.”

"Oh, just a little something. Are a few new hunting dogs so interesting to you, old boy? I’m happy to put you in contact with my breeder. He’s a remarkable talent.”

The prince regent curls his lip as if one of those hunting dogs had relieved itself beside him. “I wish you joy on that subject, but I had not been informed about it. I was referring to a recent romance of your own, my dear friend, which caused no little intrigue when I learned that you were interested in the matrimonial prospects of my beloved niece.”

Albertina accidentally snorts a bit of her cold potage. She mewls out a “pardon” and the king tosses her a wink, filling her glass again and stifling a smile at her mischievous grin.

“So you get gossip even up in Austermuhl, do you?” says the king. “I suppose a long bachelorhood necessarily inclines to make one such a figure of speculation, but I’d have to duplicate my private secretary if I wanted to keep up with all the things that get said about me.”

“Forgive the intrusion, sir, but might I ask if you, yourself, wish to marry? I had formed the idea that you were a confirmed bachelor.”  
  
The king pats his lips with his napkin. “I’ve found myself wishing for partnership as I grow older — I imagine many men do. I am happy to marry for love, if I can manage it, and companionship if I can’t. Rest assured that I’m not luring you here under false pretenses, at the very least. We’ll ride and hunt and talk about one thing and another. Get to know each other better and see if some of the things we want can overlap. Sound like a plan?”

“Certainly,” the prince regent oozes. “We are only too happy to enjoy your hospitality, dear cousin.”

“I’m only to happy to provide it, if you don’t mind being out in the sticks. And we’ll keep you nice and cosmopolitan while you’re here, never fear. It’s so brief a stay that I’m sure my staff won’t rub off on you.”

“No,” the prince regent mutters into his wine glass, “you certainly seem happy to handle that yourself.”

By a force of will and patriotism, Etelia overcomes her indignant vapors to remain standing, but she is not forgiving enough to omit a vicious entry in her diary that night. Infamous accusations! As if any of them would be so shocking!

* * *

Naturally, it is Maeve that gets the princess Albertina talking.

“Oh, my uncle,” she sighs, as they stand at the archery range. It is the next morning, the seventh day before the deadline. Albertina has changed from her fine traveling dress into an archer’s costume of fiery orange and tan. “If you want to know what I think, it’s really just that the old fool’s gone sort of soft in the head.”

“Indeed, Your Royal Highness?” Maeve grin-maces. The princess’ arrow lodges in the second innermost ring of the target.

“Yes. He really thinks this Horuel business is a good idea, nevermind that everyone thinks he’s God-damned for a dog if he ships me off to the bastards,” Albertina sighs. “I fully expect some sort of rescue. I’ve already received all sorts of promises that ‘no one shall bear for me to’ et cetera, et cetera. We’ll see.”

“That’s reassuring,” Maeve says slowly.

“You doubt that I shall be rescued?” The second arrow finds its terminus in the second outermost ring. Albertina’s eyebrows lower over her radiant eyes.

“Not necessarily… just that you can’t count on that sort of thing to happen when you want it to. It might be a cultural hesitation on my part. Our poet Hortensia once sang, ‘The best way to survive a meeting with a crocodile is not to put your dick in its mouth.’”

“I admire your rich literary tradition!” Albertina laughs.

“It’s more poetic in the original — we live in an age of degenerate vowels. May I?”

Albertina hums as Maeve wraps both arms around her, helping her hold the bow and adjusting the level her elbow. She smiles and presses her rump back against Maeve’s hips. Maeve squeaks.

The princess turns her head to murmur in Maeve’s ear. “How extremely forward you people are. Everyone knows your king performs rudenesses upon his common advisor, but to find that you would dare to lay a hand upon a foreign princess…”

Maeve wheezes out a laugh. “This is a purely academic grope, Your Royal Highness. I would not be so bold—”

“Shame. I’m still unmarried for the next ten days,” Albertina says. “Perhaps you could make me glad of it.”

The arrow flies straight into the center of the target.

* * *

The chief of staff’s office becomes the war room. He and the ambassador of Austermuhl dig themselves in almost as soon as she’s off the carriage, and they work through dinner and deep into the night. At some forsaken hour of the very early morning on the seventh day, the ambassador leaves for a nap, but she returns before dawn. The chief of staff does not leave at all.

Their question is simple: Who will make a match? Her Royal Highness the princess Albertina is young, beautiful, accomplished, educated, intelligent, well-endowered, affectionate if allowed to be, and quick to laugh and joke. Granted, that’s not everyone’s idea of a marriageable woman, docility being in such high demand across the upper echelons of royalty, but it’s certainly a start.

And if there are some imperfect qualities in the princess, well. The chief of staff and the ambassador are not exactly cold-calling from a directory.

In one of the locked drawers of his desk the chief of staff keeps a carefully indexed catalogue of his own notes, written in cipher. The contents are the latest updates in his personal relationships with other countries — favors owed, favors earned, information for distant contacts that can and will put his words on the right desk and into the right hands.

It is a precious collection. He had been planning to use it in the service of his state, one day, to prevent a war, or squelch a rebellion, or save his king’s life or reputation. Not to smooth his way as a marriage broker, or a procurer of husbands. He is wasting years of diligence and work on this, with no promise that there will be positive returns.

He churns through his collection so fast that for a moment or two he seriously considers giving the ambassador the key to the cipher; anything to add speed to their endeavor. He catches himself just in time. As vague as he keeps his own notes, there is no reason that the ambassador should be able to infer his movements for the past 20 years. They are allies now; who knows what they may become?

As it is, they unite their contacts and start tossing out letters, splattering ink like frightened squids. He picks the fastest messengers he has, stuffs their pockets full of food, and sends them out with promises of small fortunes if they return with an answer before the sun sets tomorrow. He is gratified that they sprint out of his office, but even so the delay makes him grind his teeth.

The sixth morning from the deadline brings no responses. He communicates the fact with his mouth at his king’s ear, but the man just pats him on the arm and breezes along, busy with the duties of hosting and the few bits of business that Etelia delivers him. The chief of staff is glad of the silent dismissal, eager to get back to his desk and write more letters. In the afternoon, Maeve brings him some news so useful he nearly plants a kiss on her forehead, so delighted is he to be able to throw open the possibility of marriage to a full additional half of the population.

By the fifth morning, he’s received replies. They are negative, apologetic in some cases, sneering in others. He can read the laughter in some of the letters, that raw nerve he and his king had irritated a few short weeks ago apparently soothed by his present predicament. He might’ve guessed.

There is something happening in the Senate; something happening in the House of Lords. It might even have something to do with his budget, his beloved brand-new two-year budget that he built wearing a jeweler’s loupe. He puts it in Jules’ hands, tell her to put it in an undersecretary’s hands if she’s busy, and locks his office door again.

The princess Albertina is an accomplished horsewoman, thank God, and the king hasn’t had an opportunity to go fox-hunting in an age. They mount expeditions with the prince regent riding beside them. The ambassador is also obliged to go, rattling with worry, but the chief of staff almost doesn’t mind — it keeps the lot of them out of the castle and out of his sight for several mercifully silent hours. He pulls the ambassador’s steady assistant in to clerk for him, copying letters as fast as she can. 

But then it is hard, to stand in attendance and watch his king ride back, strong and smiling astride his horse, eyes alight and cheeks flushed with the joy of the hunt and the satisfaction of the kill. With a splash of red in his saddlebag, his master is golden and glorious, moving with the easy power of a man who could chase down and take anything he wanted in the world. The chief of staff stands silent and hollow-eyed as his king dismounts among his dancing, adoring dogs and reaches up to help the princess spill off of her own mount.

The king smiles at her, some words of approval and appreciation already at his lips. As they laugh and chat, he catches sight of the chief of staff and spares him a look.

The chief of staff checks the prince regent, but the man is still struggling off of his own horse. Confident that he is unnoticed, the chief of staff makes a brief gesture in the negative. Nothing yet.

The king nods and waves him off with a hand — not down to up, as if he were an insect to be flicked away, but up to down, as if there is no concern. As if he has perfect confidence in his servant’s ability.

As if, the chief of staff thinks, watching his king tuck the princess’ hand into the crook of his arm, the worst case scenario is not something to be feared at all.

Now, the dismissals are beginning to ache.

* * *

On the fourth-to-last day, Maeve staggers out of Albertina’s room as false dawn began to rumple the night sky. She wheezes a breath of air, glad to be in the cold corridor, and after a few steps leans herself back on the wall to pull her shirt over her head.

She still can’t quite feel her legs. Wow. If it really came to it, Horuel wasn’t going to be the least amount of trouble. Bertie would break the duke like a twig.

Maeve stumbles through the corridors, beelining for the private study. She clatters inside, barely taking notice of the glow of a few candles as she gropes for the pitcher of water. She chugs straight from the spout, gasping and guzzling.

“You are revolting,” Etelia cringes from her spot at the table.

“It’s medicinal,” Maeve rasps. “I am so dehydrated, sweet Jesus. Never mind an animal in the sack. She is a force of nature, Tels. It’s like trying to get a leg over on a derecho. I may never recover.”

“Stop.”

“It’s simply not a one-person job. Not by a long shot. I need a partner. If she taps me again, you’ve got to come with. I’m not just asking for fun, either. It’s for my own physical safety. I have been _lamed_ , Etelia.”

Etelia puts her face in her hands. “How can you possibly be thinking about that — doing that! — when she might marry His Majesty?”

Maeve’s never wanted a hot stepmother, so the idea does settle her down pretty quickly. She flops into a chair with the pitcher held in her lap. “You’re up early. Or late?”

“Early,” Etelia admits. “I couldn’t sleep with the light on.”

“Hmm?”

“Across the courtyard from my room. I kept waking up and looking out.” Etelia fidgets with her fingers. “All night, for the past few days, you can see them working. Just that one little square of yellow in that wing of the castle. If you look you can even see his silhouette, talking to the ambassador.”

Maeve glances up, as if she could see through the stone floor and into the chief of staff’s personal office. “All night? Every night?”

“Yes. So I can’t stay in bed. I’ve just got to come over and get something done,” Etelia says. “Even though there’s nothing I can do to help.”

Maeve takes another gulp of water and watches the private secretary shuffle through her papers.

“He’ll find something,” she says. Her voice is firmer than her knees. “He will. He always does. If he has to take the earth by the sides and shake out a marriage, we’d better brace for the earthquake.”

“What if he’s already found the only marriage that will work, and it’s between His Majesty and Her Royal Highness? Maeve, you know he—” Etelia presses her lips together.

Maeve looks her up and down. “He what?”

Etelia’s face crumples into a helpless cringe. She whispers. “I just think he’ll be heartbroken.”

Maeve gives her a surprised smile. “Over one situation he couldn’t fix like a late-on-the-rent veterinarian? Relax, Tels… I’ll grant you that he takes professional pride way, way too far, but that’s not going to be what devastates his tender heart.”

Etelia puts her face in her hands again.

“He’ll get his heart broken if his favorite quill-supplier emigrates!” Maeve posits, determined to break through this melodrama. “Or if they change the tune of the national anthem! Or the colors of the flag!”

The private secretary gives her a look of hopeless unhappiness. “Oh, forget I said anything. It’s four in the morning and I’m out of my mind with worry.”

“Buck up, kid, there’s nothing to fear. Let’s go get something from the kitchen. If you carry me there, I’ll charm Cook.”

Etelia huffs and rises to her feet. “Wash your face first, you shocking libertine, and then you may lean on me.”

* * *

It is late on the second to last day.

He stands in his master’s formal office. The carpet is plush and splendid beneath his shoes, and outside the roses are blooming. He can smell them on the breeze as it ruffles the heavy golden drapes of the window. Beyond the garden, the sun is beginning to wheel down towards the horizon, and the sky is blue and orange.

The king is preparing for a walk in the garden. Albertina will meet him there.

First, the chief of staff must report. Head bowed, he stares at the foot of the big, broad desk.

“I have nothing yet, sire, and I am not anticipating many more letters. The likeliest opportunities have been closed.” The chief of staff swallows. “I... fear we may need to consider the option of drastic measures.”

The king hums, once. The sound of his voice makes the chief of staff’s heart seize. He clenches his hand on his cane. 

“Please allow me to apologize for my incompetence, sire,” he says. “I cannot account for my prolonged ignorance of the match. I can make no explanation. I am simply—”

“No,” the king cuts him off. The chief of staff waits in silence, staring at the edge of the desk. There’s a smudge, tiny, right there on the side of the foot. He should get to his knees and clean it with the collar of his shirt.

“No,” the king adds, more gently. “Look at me, would you?”

The chief of staff tries to think soldierly thoughts and brings his eyes up to his king’s. They are hazel, green-flecked where the princess’ are limned with gold. Their children will have jewels for eyes.

“There is nothing for which you have cause to apologize,” the king says. He smiles, and the sadness in his expression makes the chief of staff feel like his skin could crack. “I know you. To do everything in your power is to do everything in the power of several other men put together. I have perfect confidence that you have acted right. We should not have worn you to exhaustion in this pursuit… it is not as dire a situation as you seem to think.”

His stomach drops towards his feet. He’d been prepared for a rebuke. He had not been prepared for something worse.

“Not dire, my liege?” the chief of staff breathes. “Forgive my confusion. I had thought it was not your will to marry.”

The king shrugs a little, shaking his head. 

“Well. But Albertina is a charming woman, and I am as fond of her as I thought I might be. I know my worth, and I’m smart enough to see that she’s a treasure; I could hardly do better, flabby old bachelor that I am. If she’ll have me, I am sure that she and I can make each other very happy, even if we might take some work to get there.”

The king gives him a crooked smile, flashing his teeth. “As far as worst-case scenarios go, this one doesn’t hardly rate. Might prove a blessing in disguise, even.”

The chief of staff’s throat feels like a huge fist has wrapped around his neck and squeezed. His pulse pounds in his ears.

“I am... I am relieved to hear that, sire. I cannot bear—”

_To be without you, to love you hopelessly, to live my life with a glacier inside me. I cannot bear to watch you marry her. I cannot bear to see your children. I cannot bear how I cannot bear it — how hateful and meager and weak I am._

The words crumple on his tongue. He clears his throat.

“—to think that you will be unhappily married,” he says, “and to know that I would be a partial architect of your unhappiness.”

“Put yourself to ease on that account,” the king says. “You have never made me unhappy before and I daresay you haven’t now. There is no failure here. I believe that some things are simply in the hands of fate, old man, but if you’re really embarrassed, we can try to conquer abstract notions of destiny during the next session.”

The chief of staff bows as deep as he can. “Thank you, sire. You are very kind. If there is nothing more, I would not… I will not keep you from your walk.”

“I’m not going to propose to her now,” the king says. “Save it for luncheon tomorrow. If the duke of Horuel has put any kind of time limit on this, the closer we can push the prince regent to the deadline, the more reasonable we’ll seem in comparison. No promises yet that he’ll give his blessing… but I’ll promise something grand enough that he’ll be hated as a fool if he turns me down.”

“Very good, sire. Shall I draft a bride-price?”

“If you’ve the time. Tomorrow morning, though. Go to bed. You surely don’t notice it yourself, but you’re swaying on your feet.”

The chief of staff bows again and retreats from his king’s formal study. He pauses for a moment outside the door and seriously weighs the idea of going to bed.

He is exhausted. The muscles of his leg burn like hellfire and the bone pounds with every beat of his blood. He has taken catnaps at his desk, but not enough of them, and his head feels too loose and light. He is not in his right mind for anything — anything at all. He must sleep, or he could seriously damage himself and his work.

But the dreams that will find him in the dark tonight…

He goes back to his office. He must instruct Amelius to draft the announcement. He must tell Maeve to have her office ready to report after luncheon. 

He must notify the royal costumer to buy bolts and bolts and bolts of wedding blue.

* * *

It is in his office that Jules finds him, hours later.

On the way to dinner, she glances into the crack in the door and finds the chief of staff sitting at his desk. The top is covered with scattered papers, ink stains and broken quills left like shattered bodies on a battlefield. The chief of staff has curled in on himself, left hand clenched white-knuckled around his right upper arm with his elbows on the desk. At his bowed face he holds a handkerchief. She can’t read his expression, but every line of his body aches with defeat.

“Sir?” she asks softly.

The chief of staff’s head snaps up and his eyes are bloodshot and full of fresh pain. He stares at her for a moment.

“It looks worse than it is,” he rasps. His voice is thick and muffled by the handkerchief. “I walked into a door like a jackass. Nosebleed.”

Jules winces performatively. “Oof, sir. Don’t worry, I won’t say a word. Just got a letter for you.”

The chief of staff nods and reaches out. Jules passes it into his hand. “Thank you. I will be out directly. Please close the door behind you.”

Dismissed, Jules pulls the door shut and shakily places a hand on her chest. His handkerchief was absolutely unstained with blood.

Whatever that was, she should not have seen it. She will forget it.

He calls before she’s halfway down the hall. She jumps and sprints back at the shock of it. For an instant she thinks he has fallen or been attacked — his voice has never sounded like this before. Her name sounds ripped out of his throat, tattered around the edges and hot with fresh blood.

“ _Jules_!”

“Sir?” she gasps in the doorway. He’s standing upright, as if he’s just shot to his feet.

“The ambassador, here, immediately,” he blurts, eyes alight behind his eyeglasses. A shocked heartbeat passes and he roars, “ _Now_!”

“Sir!” Jules nods, and picks up her skirts, and runs.

In an hour, the chief of staff and the ambassador leave his office. He walks swiftly to his king’s private chambers and she walks in the opposite direction to deliver a slightly forged letter to the prince regent.

They do not meet again until the morning — but there is a night between then and now.

* * *

In that night, he lies awake. Dressed in pajamas, silent, flat on his back, he stares through the darkness at the distant ceiling of his bedroom for the first time in days. In the past week, he has been awake for 120 hours, the last 36 of which are consecutive and growing. His body weighs a ton. His head is stuffed with wool.

His heart is a pit.

He is a bad servant. 

Good servants scheme and work and respect, and sometimes they even obey. He schemes and he works, and sometimes he obeys, but he has gone so far and so deep into respect that he has come out of it into love. He has come out of decency into something selfish and repugnant.

Good servants work their masters’ wills. It was his king’s will, however uncertainly and hesitatingly, to marry the princess. His king was resolved to do it.

It was not his place to interfere. It was not his place to want anything else.

But he did want something else. He does, he did, and he has done it. The princess Albertina has had no proposal from the king, but the Magna Ducissa of Velancia has requested her hand in marriage. It was the longest shot, utterly forgotten in the past few days, capitalizing on a hazy bit of assistance he’d provided as a senator in having the ducissa’s goddaughter installed in a teaching position at one of their universities. The favor was 30 years old, unprovable and therefore unprofitable — until now.

The ducissa is 58 years old, reclusive, wise, stable, a passionate intellectual, and fond of falconry. She is wealthier than God. She teases him in her reply letter, telling him her goddaughter is well and happy and that it was about time he asked her to return a favor. She is kind. She is wry.

It is a better arrangement than that with the duke of Horuel, by every count: nearer ports, a higher-ranking marriage for a princess, less bad press about the prince regent’s hard-heartedness. Albertina would have a kind and wealthy wife in a comfortable country; her uncle would have a valuable alliance with the Velancian royal family and a new port to send his ships; the duke of Horuel would be frozen out. 

His king would be free.

Free? For what. For him? For the little joke of wanting him? No. Put them on a scale and let the king decide: would he trade a witty princess in the first bloom of youth for an old cripple with nothing to offer, neither land nor money, nor beauty, nor kindness? What could he bring his master except a critical mass of love, unspoken, stifled, of which he has been so ashamed, by which he has been humiliated? Who would want a love dowered with degradation?

Who would bear to be insulted by it.

There will be no beautiful wedding, no towns decorated to rejoice in his king’s happiness; nothing, in fact, except a few barbed letters by those canny enough to see what he has done. He knows in his bones that he is the only one who wants what he wants — the people despise him and his king does not desire him, long for him, or think of him. Even he cannot pretend he deserves anything else.

So for what, then, has he sacrificed his king’s happiness? Was it a match that would have been loveless as well as convenient? On what evidence has his king’s creature acted?

There was nothing that suggested unhappiness. They were smiling, touching, talking, hunting together; matching one another, all beautiful eyes and skilled riding and high spirits. With his own eyes he was watching his king start to fall in love with her.

He is inexcusable. He has objectified the king and the princess both, moved their positions like pieces on a chessboard, defied their wishes, and served his own will.

He has no shame. He has no honor, nor has he ever, but shame should have stayed his hand. With shame, he might have been forced to be what he pretends to be. Even now, when it is all over and he is lying awake in his cold bed that will be cold every night until he dies, there is no doubt that he would drive the wedge again. Water stands on his eyes and he wishes that he were different, that he could push this hateful love down or rip it out and burn it to ashes, but he cannot. This night of oppressive guilt and the knowledge of his own absolute unworthiness is not nearly enough to have stopped him.

Even if his king knew what his servant really was, what he really wanted, he still would have done it. Without hesitation.

Whoever first thought to name him a serpent was right, but it is not for coldness, nor appetite, nor bite, nor venom, nor even the lies. It is how he has slipped in where there might have been happiness and destroyed it, for nothing, for no hint that there was a greater purpose. Like a serpent he should move on his belly for it — should beg his king’s forgiveness, and moreover that of the princess. The betrayal of his king is the greater sin, because to him he owes first loyalty, but what he has robbed the princess of…

But he does not regret and cannot apologize in earnest. There are some punishments he can devise for himself. He should have done something sooner, but the flirtation game briefly let him imagine a life where he was admired in his king’s eyes and it felt so good, so right, that he could not confront the fact that the game is over.

He must make himself face the truth. He is furniture in this man’s life, nothing more, and he never will be. He certainly does not deserve to be.

He will learn his place. By whatever methods it takes to teach him.

* * *

“Your Majesty,” Etelia asks in the morning of the last day. “Would you like to be present for the press briefing this afternoon?”

The king sits at his desk in his formal office. “Mmm. Maybe so, but maybe not. Anything especially newsworthy going on?”

“The prince regent of Austermuhl will be announcing that he has chosen to bless the union of his niece, Her Royal Highness the pri—”

“I know who she is, for God’s sake!”

“And the Magna Ducissa of Velancia,” Etelia says. She adds a terse, “my lord.”

The king slumps into his seat. “Oh, thank Jesus,” he groans raggedly.

Etelia startles. “My lord?”

The king passes a hand over his forehead. “Don’t tell him I said that, all right?”

“The prince regent? Your Majesty, I would never—”

“No! You know,” the king mutters. As if utterance of the name would summon the man himself, the king gestures to his face with his index fingers touching his thumbs, making two glasses over his eyes. “He’s been working himself to death over this. Got to the point where I didn’t think he’d pull it off, and I tried to keep him sanguine about it, but I don’t want anyone to think there was ever a moment I’d really doubted him. Right?”

Etelia clasps her hands together and holds them tight. “Yes. Of course, Your Majesty.”

“It was an absurd idea, start to finish! I know desperate times call for desperate measures, but… no one would look at me and think I have a yen for girls half my age, would they?”

“I could not speculate, my lord, but I am sure you are known where you are known for having firm opinions about age-appropriate assignations.”

“Hmm,” the king says darkly. He smiles, at last. “It’s just like him to keep me gasping 'til the last moment, dramatic old snake that he is. Tell me he’s asleep somewhere.”

“Er, no, my lord. I have just come from a short meeting with him and the rest of the executive staff. He intends to work a little over a full day today. Something about the budget, I believe.”

“Right. Jules can take the budget issue. Let me wrap up here and I’ll go chuck him in a quiet room with few escape routes and lock the door. It’s for his own good.”

“Would you like me to ask two of the guards to do it, my lord?”

“Perhaps that’s a good idea. They could use the practice, especially if they haven’t yet felt the sting of that cane.” The king fits his reading glasses across his nose and picks up a small digest of recent international news. “And as a matter of fact, Etelia, I would be happy to attend the press briefing this afternoon. I wish to wish Albertina joy, and I’m happy to cancel any meetings that get in the way. I am a bachelor and my time is my own.”

“Congratulations, my lord.”

“That’s all for now. Thank you, Etelia.”

The private secretary curtseys and slips through the door. In the hall, she passes the ambassador’s assistant sitting on a niche bench just a few yards from the formal office with an empty water glass in her hand. She nods to the young woman and the assistant smiles back, archwise.

Etelia turns the corner and, certain she’s not being watched, lets herself smile and do a little twirl as she walks down the hall. She’ll have to deliver that order to the guards, but His Majesty said nothing about not warning the chief of staff before she delivered it.

He can usually manage to escape with a few papers if he’s got a ten-minute head start.


	6. Poisoning I

_“You are going to lose this election, sir.”_

_The senator from the eastern provinces doesn’t glance up from the papers speed out before him. It’s long past the time the clerks pack it in for the night, but still four hours before the senator will snuff his candles and retreat to his own residence._

_“Hm,” the senator says._

_“I’m serious, sir,” Jules insists. Uninvited, she crosses the room and lays a new stack of papers on top of his work. The senator gives her a single baleful look over the rims of his eyeglasses but she taps her knuckle against the central chart in her summary document. “That, there, is your polling percentage. You are toxic, sir. There is absolutely nothing you can do to change numbers this dismal. In my professional opinion, were you die and return to life as the incarnation of the second coming, you could not win this election. Ever since that report on your voting history came out _—”__

_“I was elected to make decisions,” the senator interjects mildly. “Not to represent will. They cannot have selected me in the earnest belief that I would submit to anything but law, science, and my own conscience.”_

_“If they believed that at the outset, they have changed their minds,” Jules says. “And if you care anything for the party _—”__

_“I do not.”_

_“—or for your own accomplishments, you’ll retire.”_

_The senator thinks on this for a moment and slowly sits back in his seat. “Is the amendment really so controversial?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“It is the right thing to do. Treason is greatest violation the secular human animal can perpetrate. An amendment outlining clear punishment for treason is only the least of what anyone would expect of any country that considered morality in a serious light. The lands of the traitor Krummweid belong to the state and the public, and therefore to the king. The generals of the traitor Krummweid have made war on their country and are guilty of treason, and we will see them hang. The soldiers will be fined and publicly shamed. That is positively merciful. If I had my way I’d see the traitor’s head used as a footrest and collect one hand off every infantryman that lifted a sword against his nation.”_

_“Not that amendment, sir, although it is unpopular.”_

_“The other one? It is not an attack on the blasted church to insist that they not persecute non-believers! They are citizens like anyone else. A half-minute’s thought would show that they live parasitically off of their brothers by using the same utilities as everyone else, free of charge, but you’ll note that I didn’t push even that far in the bill.”_

_“No, sir, not that one either.”_

_The senator frowns, trying to remember. Jules lifts a fist to her mouth and coughs out a year, early in the senator’s tenure. His eyes widen._

_“You are joking.”_

_“No, sir.”_

_“They object to my vote not to go to war with Mordrovia? I am a veteran! I know firsthand the thresher they would be feeding their children into!”  
_

_“No, sir, the other significant vote that year. It’s about taxes, you see. The extra penny on alcohol.”_

_The senator takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “Taxes must be raised if we are to have roads, sewage lines, a postal service, a standing army _—”__

_“Yes, but you picked the one thing _—”__

_“I tax the one thing everyone buys, yes, to fund the things everyone uses! The most equitable tax burden to create the most equitable distribution of expense for the utilities which are used most equitably across the nation!”_

_Jules shrugs helplessly. “I don’t need explaining to, sir. We wrote the policy recommendation together. But it’s a non-starter, even all these years after it started. Merchants and tavern-keepers hate you, now that they know it was your doing, and they are the political chiefs at the local level. We need them more than we need our own lifeblood.”_

_“Whose damn-fool idea was it to publish the voting history, anyway?”_

_Jules shakes her head. “It’s not only that. Your votes are unpopular, but you are personally unpopular, as well. I’ve been given to understand that you seem insincere and secretive.”_

_“I am insincere and I am secretive,” the senator snaps, “and I’ll tell you for free that I’m opportunistic and ruthless and I prevaricate and obfuscate and, horror of horrors, Jules, I also compromise when I consider it in the best interests of the country to do so.”_

_“That’s not electable, sir,” Jules pleads, “however decent and honorable it may be in point of fact.”_

_The senator bunches his mouth together and puts his eyeglasses back on his nose._

_“Sir, if you run, you will lose, and you’ll lose so badly that the party will take years to recover from it. You’ve got to admit that letting someone from our own camp continue a few of our initiatives is better than opening the door to someone who will take it as a personal mission to dismantle every piece of good you’ve done in the last few years. I need you to think about strategy, here.”_

_The senator shakes his head and begins gathering his papers. “I will think about it, but I promise nothing with regard to my conclusion. Tonight I have a budget to review. I’ll do it at home.”_

_“Yes, sir,” Jules sighs._

* * *

Amelius isn’t the kind to tag along on trips out of the country. Neither is Jules, although you can make the stretch that she goes where the chief of staff goes and therefore gets hauled along enough. Bringing Maeve anywhere is iffy. Of the four of them, Etelia is definitely the one who should get scooped up and brought along, since she’s all that stands between His Majesty and minor inconvenience, and she treats the sacredness of that charge with all the seriousness of a vestal virgin.

They’re heading to Velancia to watch Albertina get married and they’re not taking the short route. There are enough stops to make along the way, all allies and acquaintances, that the whole damn court is going. Had the senate but been in session, it would’ve been just Etelia and the chief of staff — who can’t get out of it because the Magna Ducissa had invited him by name — and he and Jules and Maeve might’ve been able to get some actual work done.

But oh, no. No, instead they’re in Belaria, stop three on this full two weeks of getting their noses rubbed down a long runway of _noblesse oublient_. Everywhere they go, they’re more-or-less genteelly ignored and talked over by royals and expected to live in leaky guest rooms because no one outside their own nation knows what to do with His Most Eccentric Majesty’s pet commoners. It’s a shame that the king’s little game of Fuck the Advisor hasn’t caught on; you’d think these people would be offering them the option to share rooms in slightly finer accommodations. It’s enough to make Amelius want to sign the fake adoption papers Maeve drafted. If he were a prince, at least his bedroom might have a rag stuffed in a drafty windowsill.

In the hours he isn’t standing and promenading and bowing and changing clothes for probably the 19th time today and the 42nd time since they crossed the border last night, Amelius finds a few opportunities to work. The king will probably be asked to give some kind of toast during the wedding, and like any man who knows the value of communications Amelius wants it to be a good goddamn toast. Beyond that, he’s charged with turning Jules’ and the chief of staff’s unholy handwriting into an actual series of policy recommendations and not just one long screed against the issue du jour, so he’s got plenty to entertain himself with, let alone his long evenings playing cards with the kitchen staff of every castle they’ve been in.

Last night he won 12 choux cakes with raspberry custard, whipped cream, and chocolate ganache in them. The chief of staff hadn’t even pretended to look annoyed.

An hour ago, His Majesty left for the fox hunt with Etelia and Maeve. They’re left to their own devices today and for all the freedom that permits they’re still trapped in the castle, charged with keeping to corridors where they won’t offend anyone important with the unhallowed sight of commoners roaming at will.

Heading towards the king’s suite of rooms, where they may at least work in comfort, the chief of staff grunts softly and staggers. Amelius manages not to barrel over him and stops short, frowning.

“Sir?”

His boss looks around, but they’re alone in the corridor.

“Nothing,” he mutters. He grabs at his thigh for a second and hisses, and then walks on.

They make it down the rest of the hallway before he stops again. He glances over his shoulder at Amelius and Jules.

“Come with me,” the chief of staff says. “Now. To the right.”

“Huh?”

“Now.”

Amelius hovers automatically as the chief of staff lurches toward a small alcove off of the central hall. The chief of staff moves more stiffly than usual, holding his bad leg rigid, and Amelius offers him an arm he doesn’t reject. He wraps his hand into the crook of Amelius’ elbow and leans so heavily on him that Amelius staggers a bit. Jules swoops down upon them from the other side as they reach the alcove and the chief of staff looks and down the hall, frowning deeply.

“I didn’t see anyone. Did you?”

“Sir, what’s _—”_

“That’s a no, then. Here.” The chief of staff opens his hand and reveals a small dart, still red at the tip with his blood. Amelius nearly swallows his tongue.

“No fuss. Not a word,” the chief of staff says. “It hit me in the left thigh. Amelius, I need a room. Somewhere quiet and hidden.”

“Mine isn’t far,” he says, “I can get you there and no one will know where you are.”

“Good.” The chief of staff sways on his feet and Amelius grabs him, holding him by the upper arms. “Jules, send a note and warn His Majesty to be on his guard. Tell the castle guards that there is a man from Horuel, name of Garou. Can’t imagine that’s real. Amelius’ height, a stone lighter, pale hair, dark eyes, eye teeth filed sharp. I saw him at dinner last night. Then have a doctor sent to Amelius’ room — in that order, Jules.”

Jules’ eyes go big as dinner plates and she takes the dart out of the chief of staff’s hand. She wraps it in her handkerchief, sweeps her skirts around her, and heads down the hall towards the page room at a sprint. The chief of staff is beginning to shake and Amelius shifts his arms, holding the man around the waist and getting an arm slung around his shoulders.

“Come on, sir.”

“And… and the summit,” the chief of staff grits, his weight growing heavier where Amelius holds him. They struggle down the hall, plodding with only two good feet in operation. “Next week. Don’t let the Hyperabaylis get anything we haven’t agreed upon. Their translator is a son of a bitch. Get every word from his lips checked, twice.”

Amelius puts an arm around the chief of staff’s waist and pulls him closer. “I know, sir. Listen, this can wait until later _—”_

“Muffle the walls of the room when we arrive. Keep everyone away, especially His Majesty. Tell them nothing until I’m dead — if they know beforehand, they will try to take advantage.”

“Sir, all anyone’s going to care about is seeing you safe.”

“Ha! Listen to me. I start to talk _—”_ the chief of staff coughs.

His skin is taking on a green pallor and Amelius damns the impropriety of it; he takes the chief of staff’s right hand in his left, steps his right foot between his legs, hooks a hand behind his right knee, tips him, and takes him bodily onto his shoulders. He squats under the chief of staff and stands, shifting him with a bounce and wrapping his right arm entirely around the man’s right leg and over until his right hand takes the chief of staff’s. The cane drops to the floor. He’ll get it later.

“You were saying, sir?” he asks, moving at a fast walk. He’d run, if the jouncing wouldn’t make things worse.

The chief of staff can’t stop a tight hiss of pain. 

“If I start to talk, Amelius, cut out my tongue,” he rasps. “I know things no one else should hear.”

“I will, sir,” Amelius lies.

“And if I die, don’t leave me here. Burn me and bring me home.”

“We will, sir,” Amelius promises. “But you won’t die, sir.”

“When we get to your room _—”_  The chief of staff gags roughly, making Amelius break into a sprint. “Y-You should carry on. I can wait for the physician _—”_

He drops his head and retches, dry and wracking. The tail end of the sound is a whimper, and it grows into two, three little shattered noises of pain, rising in pitch and volume. Panic starts crawling up Amelius’ own throat and he turns into the servant’s corridor with a gasp of relief. He clutches the chief of staff’s hand even tighter and hurtles across the flagstones.

“Shut up, sir.”

* * *

Etelia doesn’t like fox hunts. It’s not sympathy for the fox, no; she saw a fox up close once and between the shriek it made at her and the fleas she could see rippling through its matted coat, she’s fairly sure it’s a positive benefit to the universe to have fewer of the horrid things laying about.

It’s the riding. She rides side-saddle because she doesn’t want anyone to see her calves. It makes her back hurt, and her hips ache, and it amounts to nothing but a sunburnt nose and a few restless hours watching Maeve grip her steed between her thighs and ride like some blood-mad warrior princess of old. All things considered, she could do without it, but His Majesty just adores it. As it is, she tends to hang as far to the back of any riding party as she can while still being in summoning range of His Majesty.

She’s sitting up on a decent old pinto thing on the crest of a green hill, contemplating the forest before her and what it would look like if she could only organize it to put all the ashes, all the oaks, all the beeches, and all the firs into their own tidy categories, when a page rides up to her side. They have been out of the castle for only three hours, but as the page canters up, red-faced, he tells her there’s a message for His Majesty.

“I am his private secretary,” Etelia says. “You may give the document to me.”

The page hesitates for a moment, but forks it over. “I’m to await reply.”

“Very well,” Etelia sighs. She pulls a letter opener out of her hair and slits the envelope open. Jules’ penmanship. What’s up?

She reads the first few lines too quickly and can’t catch the meaning. Confused, she slows down and reads them again, and—

Etelia looks at the page with her eyes ready to fall out of her head. “Is this— true?”

“Miss?”

Oh, how would he know? Etelia turns in her saddle and seizes the reins, kicking the horse in the side. She thrusts her hips forward and the horse works up into a trot. She pushes it again. 

“Follow me!”

She squeezes the horse’s sides hard, working him up into a gallop. Its body kicks between her legs as she shrieks down the hill and into the dell, chasing the hunters.

“Your Majesty! Your Majesty! Maeve!”

* * *

_“Not running again, old man?”_

_The senator inclines his head. “No, sire. I have done that which I can hope to achieve in the senate. It remains for a younger man to take up the bridle.”_

_“Hmm. If that is really your seasoned opinion… sherry?”_

_“Your Majesty is too kind. I must not.”_

_“Suit yourself. Well, I shall miss your service as an advisor on matters domestic. Never would’ve gotten that divorce bill through without you. Drastic reduction of violence in the home, from what little we can see. I still get letters about it, actually. Very touching.”_

_The senator bows, silent, but a smile ticks at one corner of his mouth. The king examines him over the rim of his glass._

_“You’re a bit young to retire, aren’t you?” the king asks. “I suppose that’s wise. You’ll have a proper third career this way. Back to the estate in the country, then? Live fat and write books and marry some plump peach of pastoral maidenhood?”_

_The senator taps his cane against the floor once._

_“No, sire, I do not believe I shall. There is no estate. If I am unwanted in my district, I see little reason to remain a resident. I have always rented my lodgings and I would prefer to remain in town. As it happens, I have some hope of remaining employed in politics, but precisely how…”  The senator shook his head. “It remains to be seen. I have been notified that I am toxic.”_

_“You?” the king demands. The senator flicks his eyes over him, but the incredulity appears to be sincere. “But you’re a statesman!”_

_The praise takes him utterly be surprise. A statesman? He... well, it’s terribly sweet, really. When she’d listed his unelectable and unpopular qualities,_ _Jules had seemed to know precisely what ‘everyone’ had been talking about and why they thought that. To find that his king does not consider those faults to be in any way detrimental to his career as a senator comes, unexpectedly, as a balm._

_The senator clears his throat. “Thank you, sire. Electorally toxic, I might clarify. Not literally toxic.”_

_The king huffs a laugh. “Ah. My next question was just who you bit. For all that, you’re still not ready to leave the old bloodsport?”_

_“Not if I can avoid it, sire. I relish it, to speak candidly. But it would be necessary for me to work in bureaucracy of some kind, in a position not subject to external approval, if I am to have any hope. I know few enough of those positions that are genuinely efficacious roles.”_

_The king leans back a bit in his seat. “Well, now. We’re at a rather interesting point, truth be told. I would hate to lose you and you would hate to go — I call that equity. I wonder what we might be able to find, between the two of us.”_

_The senator blinks his eyes. “Sire, if I may be privileged to serve you in some capacity, you must know that I will leap at the opportunity. What do you have in mind?”_

***

Etelia and the page get back first. His Majesty and Maeve are not long behind her, certainly, but the threat of another attack makes it prudent for the Belarian nobles to go all together, and for Maeve — who is the only one besides His Majesty who knows the first thing about fighting — to guard the king.

The page bounces off his horse and runs into the castle, hurrying to check in with the head guard. For her part, Etelia falls off the side of the foaming pinto and into the arms of a groom, her feet barely under her body as she runs up from the stables into the castle and straight for the servants’ quarters. She sprints, skirts hiked up high to let herself run. She regrets her corset with every gasp.

“Jules! Amelius!” she cries, running through the halls. "Where are you? Jules!”

She hears a door open a floor down. “Etelia? We’re here.”

Etelia hurries down the steps into a dingy section of the servant’s quarters and towards Jules, seen from a distance as a blotch of red fabric waiting at the door of a small room at the end of the hall. It’s several degrees colder here, and somewhere someone is yelling.

“Oh, Jules — Jules, how is he, what’s happening?”

“Shh, shh shh shh. I need you calm, Etelia. All right? Can you do that?”

Etelia takes a deep breath. She’s calm. Somewhere someone is yelling, but it’s not her.

The somewhere is here. The someone—

“Okay,” Jules says.

She open the door and Etelia’s throat tries to close. The room is tight and small, and the air smells of fresh vomit and worse. On the bed, the chief of staff thrashes blindly, bullets of sweat pouring from his stark naked body. The royal physician is trying to bleed him and Amelius is holding him down with a hand on one hip and the other on the opposite shoulder. They’ve fitted a gag in his mouth, pulled back like a horse’s bridle to expose his teeth. He screams, and the gag muffles it.

“Oh God,” Etelia gasps.

Jules winces and comes over to stand opposite Amelius, taking the chief of staff’s hands in her own and pressing gently on his ribs, as if that will stop him from seizing on the bed.

“You read the note. Someone blew a dart at him,” Jules says. She looks over her shoulder at Etelia, who can’t even look up from the floor. “Can’t we cover him?”

“His clothes will need to be burnt,” Amelius mumbles.

“There are too many cooks in this kitchen,” the royal physician grumbles. “Jules, let him claw — get down here and hold his legs for me.”

Jules releases his arms and hurries over. “Oh, right.”

“I’ll get water,” Etelia gasps.

She throws herself back out of the room and heads for the pump room, gulping for air. Anything to be out of that room — under the fear that he’s been mortally injured, her whole body prickles with humiliation for the chief of staff’s sake. He lives a fine example of what organization and caution and seriousness can amount to: someone with dignity, who deserves respect. Someone always clean and careful and composed. She can’t look at her dear, distinguished employer this way, naked and dirty and mindless and gagged. It’s a horror.

In the pump room, she shoves the lace and satin up her arms and fills two buckets of water. She brings them back as quick as she can, trying to brace for the room again. When she’s a few steps away, she can no longer hear the screaming. Her heart stops and she wrenches the door open.

The body on the bed is limp and she hiccups, but Jules seems to see what she’ll think before she says a word.

“It’s okay,” Jules breathes. She hurries over to Etelia and grabs one of the buckets. “We’ve got a few minutes, Etelia. He’s passed out again.”

Amelius steps away from the bed. “What did His Majesty say?”

“They’re coming,” Etelia says. “Slower, behind me, but all together. Maeve is with him. Oh, can’t we cover him, doctor? Clean him up a little?”

“As long as you don’t disturb him, yes,” the royal physician says. At the chief of staff’s left hip and down his thigh there’s a huge mottle of discolored flesh, perforated with a dozen lines from the physician’s careful knife. The cuts ooze a dark, thick blood into a rag wedged beneath his body; every few seconds, the royal physician wipes them and palpates the leg to push out more. “Is that water drinkable?”

“From the pump room,” Etelia says.

She watches Jules tear a long strip off the bedding and douse it in the water. Jules hands her the cloth and she swallows, taking it up to the chief of staff’s face. Something to do. Something to—

Her fingers stammer on the gag. “Why did you do this?” she asks softly.

“Stop him breaking his teeth, or biting his tongue out,” Amelius says. “He told us to cut it out if he started to talk, and… well, for the last hour he’s been screaming.”

Etelia folds her lips into her mouth, feeling a hot sob rising to the base of her tongue. She unties the gag, pulling it out and carefully washing his face with long, slow strokes of the cloth. She pushes his hair back towards the pillow, leaving the rag in a wet lump on his chest while she collects his hair in her hands and reties his ribbon around it.

“Then the water’s probably fine for drinking,” the royal physician says. “Someone will need to go to the kitchen shortly and get a funnel or something — after the purging, he’s definitely dehydrated. He might not swallow easily when he’s awake, but I don’t dare try now that he’s out. He’ll drown.”

“I can go,” Etelia says. “I can stop by the kitchens on my way to the stables. Someone should be waiting to guide His Majesty here _—”_

“Don’t wait there,” Amelius says. “They won’t let anyone in, until the guards either find this Garou person or confirm he’s gone. And once he’s back in the castle… don’t bring him here.”

“But the king will want to _—”_

“Right, but what can we tell him?” Amelius asks. “If the king comes to see him now, there’s no good he can do one way or the other. We should wait, let him sweat it out a little more… let him come back to consciousness, for one thing, and not just pain. Then we might bring the king to see him.”

“But _—”_

“Definitely not now,” Jules agrees. “He’d be humiliated to be seen like this. When we’ve got him settled and clean and dressed, maybe.”

“Damn the delicacy. I don’t need another body in this room,” the royal physician says. “That, more than anything, is the issue at present.”

Etelia swallows hard. “What if he dies before His Majesty can see him?”

“He won’t die,” Jules states. She stares daggers at the royal physician, who does not look at her as she silently wipes the blood away.

“If he dies before the king can visit, it doesn’t matter,” Amelius says. “He’s burning up. He doesn’t recognize any of us. If he dies in the next few minutes, they’ve already had their last conversation, so nothing’s changed.”

Etelia covers her mouth with her hands and takes a long, hard breath. “I’m going to back to the stables. At least I can tell him what I saw, and he can’t come out and find all of us gone.”

“Fine,” Amelius says. “I’ll walk you. I know where the kitchens are. I’ll get a funnel and come back.”

Jules bobbles her head in a loose nod. The royal physician waves them away.

They step out into the hallway in silence. Amelius retrieves his pipe from his jacket pocket and wedges it between his teeth, holding it unlit. Etelia fidgets with her fingers until he finally offers her his arm, and then she clings to him like a fainting limpet.

“You got back here fast,” he says softly.

“I rode astride.”

“Oof.”

“I had to get here as quick as I could,” she says. “Amelius, what if he—”

“He might.”

“Amelius—”

Amelius stops and reaches for her. He pulls her close, planting her temple against his collarbone and mushing his own nose into her hair. She hiccups and grabs the front of his jacket.

“I’m not prepared to think about the possibility, Etelia,” he says. “Please don’t make me think about it.”

“Fine. You smell like bile,” she chokes.

“You smell like horse,” Amelius says. His breath finds the roots of her hair and something in her spine eases.

They stand together for a moment or two, Etelia’s fingers clenched in the buttonholes and braids of his coat. His fingertips slowly weave in amongst her hair and he gently rubs a small circle above one ear.

When they part, the sentimentality of it all leaves an embarrassed block of air between them. They walk down the rest of the hall in silence.

From the depths of the hall they hear, or think they hear, a muffled shout and a long whine of agony. The sound grows stifled and they pick up the pace. Etelia can feel her heart beating in her ears.

At the mouth of the hall they part ways without a glance. Amelius heads towards the corridor to the kitchen, and Etelia takes herself back to the stables, to wait just inside the door and pace with her fists wrapped in her skirts.

* * *

_His Majesty the king is only three years into his reign. For those three years, the senator from the eastern provinces has been pleased and proud to be an advisor to the crown._

_Three years ago, His Majesty was in fact His Royal Highness, the prince. Three years ago, the senator from the eastern provinces gave no thought to His Royal Highness, the prince, because the man was so utterly ineffectual in matters of policy. The senator from the eastern provinces would read the man’s essays as they appeared in magazines and newspapers, of course, and the voice there was clear and cogent; but the bills that occasionally appeared on the senate floor at the prompting of His Royal Highness indicated nothing but pure idealism and very little understanding of the nightmarish complexity of a genuine piece of legislation. The man wrote the most delicious proclamations and theoretical treatises — but they were hardly in the business of writing constitutional preambles, these days._

_Then His Majesty the king had died, suddenly, tragically, and too young. Unmarried as he was, the title had gone on to His Royal Highness, the prince, and within days the man was being crowned in his mourning clothes. From a distant atrium, the senator from the eastern provinces watched as the crown settled over those high temples, the first streaks of grief-earned white in that full beard glinting back the pomp of the golden sceptre and globe._

_Mr. Fauberhel was the name of His Majesty’s chief of staff, inherited from brother to brother. Mr. Fauberhel was well-liked everywhere, because he was charming and he was cruel, and to be his friend was to find oneself mercifully without a target painted on one’s back. He liked things like fixed exchange rates and the gold standard, and believed an ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure, and that therefore the central goal of a government was to prevent much of anything from going on._

_The senator from the eastern provinces, who had no charm and was very little accustomed to being intentionally cruel, and who liked things that worked, did not like him. As a result it came as a surprise, one day, to find an invitation to a meeting with His Majesty the king waiting on his desk one morning. The request was to discuss a few issues of domestic import, and thinking of the soaring rhetoric and beautiful, overly optimistic spirit of the essays, the senator braced himself for a long, remedial afternoon._

_It was short. It flew by and it produced a ream of viable policy options. Worn with grief, the man was still beautiful, and stout-hearted, and had a laugh that made the sun crane its neck around clouds to see what was so wonderful. All he wanted, in his heart of hearts, was for his country to flourish. His ideas were delicious and his goals were as solid as concrete. All he lacked were the details, the dirty tricks and games that had to be played to make things run smoothly along the tracks of the world._

_And oh, glorious: he wanted to learn what he lacked. He wanted someone to teach him._

_That afternoon flew by, and the three years have flown by, and now? Now, Mr. Fauberhel is in another room, being thanked for his many years of excellent service, being clapped on the back with the king’s right hand while the left hand held the door open for him._

_The senator cannot imagine how awkward a conversation it must be for the king, who is generous and gentle under his gruff bluster, but when he imagines the loathing that must burn in Mr. Fauberhel’s breast, he finds himself smiling._

He’s thrown a capable man out for you, _he thinks to himself, gazing at the desk which is to be his._ Given an influential man the chuck to put you in his place. Made an enemy.

 _He doesn’t quite let himself think,_ for you, _over that last one. That is indeed a bridge too far. It’s nothing like that, nothing at all._

 _Instead, what he thinks is,_ Don’t waste it.

_He never shall. But the regime change means a fairly wholesale slaughter is necessary; he is disappointed and not precisely surprised to find that the staff have learned their tricks from their former superior. They have their little loyalties in the mistaken belief that their old master is still of value enough to justify less than duty to their new master._

_They are, of course, incorrect._

_The purge takes him about a year. The younger members of the staff seem to see which way the wind is blowing and make shifts on their own; it’s easy enough to replace them. The senior staff take more time, but he is patient and does not seek to earn their affection, and when it becomes increasingly clear that the rewards of duty are nearly non-existent and the penalties for slack are severe, they gradually take new positions elsewhere._

_That warm glow at the thought of Fauberhel getting shoved aside to make room for him notwithstanding, the chief of staff prefers it this way. His king may be blunt and even gauche if he wishes to be, but that has never been a trait the chief of staff has worn well. He likes to wait for his moment and quietly swap known quantities into the positions as they bloom open. During the slow change, the only eagerness he truly feels is to have Jules back by his side. For all her candor about his toxicity, Jules jumps at the opportunity to be his director of policy. Something has happened in the intervening year and a half since he left the senate, and she takes it out on him even as she takes the job, declaring herself through with elections and the people and perhaps the whole edifice of government itself. She threatens anarchy from within for a few weeks, earning herself the affection of the king, who values a sense of humor, but her revolutionary talk dries up pretty quick by the time they get the new tax bill through, because Jules loves a policy win. Then she’s quite herself again._

_But one of the original staffers sticks, and the senator — now the chief of staff — can’t seem to be struck of him._

_He’s a speechwriter, probably in his late twenties; his receding hairline makes him look older, but nevertheless the chief of staff calculates himself to be about 15 years the man’s senior. He doesn’t quite know what makes the man tick. The speechwriter plays no tricks and curries no favor, and generally seems oblivious to the notion that anything has changed in terms of his employer’s identity. That’s very possibly a good thing, but the chief of staff isn’t sure._

_One day, he returns a script to the man’s desk with a few notations of his own. In an hour, the man is in his office._

_“I take your point about the alliteration,” the man opens, without asking if the chief of staff has a moment to discuss this. (He does not.) “And I’ll walk back some of the garden imagery if it’s that distracting. But I’m not changing this.”_

_The chief of staff looks at the speechwriter with empty eyes. “I am afraid your precise wording has not resonated far enough into my heart to be memorized. Could you be so good as to show me what you mean?”_

_The sting pops elastically off of the man like a pair of metal balls striking one another — undented, unperceived. He walks across the room and puts the script on his desk, pointing to an elaborate sequence in the fourth section of the speech that swings from the romantic idealism so familiar in the king’s own written rhetoric to the complete disavowal of a supremely specific tax policy that will have the end-run effect of driving mono-religious districts into inclusion for the sake of their economic survival._

_The chief of staff wants it cut. He does not want to call any more attention to the policy than he absolutely must have — it’s blatantly unconstitutional and he’s only using it to put the screws to the opposite side._

_“We need this,” says the speechwriter._

_“And what makes you think that?”_

_“Because I’m talking to three groups in this part,” the speechwriter says. “The extremists on the right need to be told that we’re not budging on religious exemptions. Our friends in the halls of the emperor of Dhome need to know we’re giving to Caesar what is Caesar’s and the rest is up for any deity as wants it. And finally I’m giving you air cover for three months from now.”_

_“What will I be doing three months from now?”_

_“Sacrificing the tax policy to alter an existing exemption that makes these districts come into the fold on their own, slowly,” the speechwriter says. “Because you and Jules have floated a dead policy and even if you’re the only ones who know it, I can still bring the opposite side to the table sweating.”_

_“And you don’t think this will make them feel over-confident.”_

_“Sir, it’s a stupid policy that will be struck down the second it’s taken to a court,” the speechwriter says. “If the king supports it, you’re both clearly bluffing. If the king publicly disavows it and you keep running with it, they’re going think you’re either crazy enough to do it and damn if you make the king look like a fool, or you’re playing a significantly bigger game than you are. Either way, that will scare them to the table ready to take what they can get.”_

_The chief of staff tilts his head and considers the page._

_“Cut the romance, then,” the chief of staff says. “Let him be blunt, even accusatory. Let him tell them what his will is and I will see how badly I can hide my hand.”_

_The speechwriter badly stifles a smile. “If you want blunt, I’ll have to rewrite the whole section.”_

_“Yes, that does sound like an accurate description of your job, Amelius,” the chief of staff says. He smiles back._

_“Yes, sir.”_

_“And change that comma,” the chief of staff says. “In the third sentence of the second paragraph. It’s incorrect.”_

_“It isn’t.”_

_The chief of staff turns his attention back to his papers. “If you consult a style manual, I believe you’ll find that it is. That is all, Amelius, thank you.”_

_Later that day, the chief of staff returns from getting a cup of coffee to find a small tract on the proper usage of commas for formal style on his desk. The eighth paragraph is circled in red ink._

_The comma stays in, and so does Amelius. In three weeks, he promotes him to director of communications._

* * *

When the riding party returns, a few quadrants of the castle have been cleared. So far there is no man named Garou, nor any man of a description matching him.

Maeve hops down from her steed and watches the king dismounts his horse with a brisk, tight gesture that nearly snaps the animal in two. He almost strides into the castle ahead of his host, but Maeve manages to collar him at the last minute, and it helps that Etelia bursts out from a side door and comes running over before he can wheel on her and start shouting.

He’s been rigid as a board the whole ride back. Maeve has never been unable to talk to the man before, but even if she could think of something to say, she’s sure he wouldn’t hear it.

“Well?” the king demands of Etelia, ignoring the watchful eyes of the Belarian royal family.

Etelia cringes through a brief description of the sick room. Her large eyes are full of panic but she’s using her good organization voice — if Maeve knows her at all, she’d been planning itineraries and drafting personal correspondence in that hallway beyond the door, just to keep her head together.

“God’s Christ,” the king swears when she’s done. “I want a spot working with the guards to clear the place. When I find the little bastard I’m going to—”

“We might be able to arrange that,” Maeve agrees.

“But I want to see him, first.”

Etelia shakes her head. “No. No, Your Majesty, no, you may not.”

Maeve’s jaw drops even faster than the king’s.  

“Etelia,” he says, warningly. “I have misunderstood you.”

“You haven’t, my lord, you haven’t. You may not go into the room and see him, no. Under no circumstances.”

Maeve tries to catch Etelia’s eyes, but she’s just standing there with her head bowed and her fingers curled in her skirts.

“Tels…” she starts.

“Twice! Twice now, I’ve failed to understand you,” the king growls. “Maybe you’re not remembering that I am your king, Etelia. You clearly mean that you’re going to take me to see him, right now.”

“I can’t, Your Majesty,” Etelia insists. She cuts her eyes up to Maeve, pleading, and then faces the king head-on. “He needs a few hours. Please, don’t try to see him now. You won’t recognize him, anyway. Please, think how careful he is about his appearance! He would be humiliated to be seen in this state.”

“I can’t help that! He’s got no damn reason to be embarrassed!” the king snaps. “I’ve known the man for fifteen years, living in each other’s damn pockets for most of it. I need to see him!”

Maeve clears her throat. “You will. Right, Etelia? Just not right now.”

“Oh, I don’t…” Etelia must seem something in Maeve’s expression. “Y-Yes. Maybe. In a few hours? Just until after dinner, sire, that’s all we ask.”

The king actually bares his teeth. “Do not call me ‘sire,’ damn it!”

“Your Majesty, you know what he’ll be like if he sees you,” Etelia pushes. “If he even knows you’re there. He can barely talk, right now. Please, don’t make him stand on ceremony when he’s hurting.”

Between them, the king’s face turns an apocalyptic red. Maeve has seen him angry before, of course, and even heard him shout, but never at them. For a moment, it looks like it’s going to happen. For a moment, it looks like he’s finally been pushed too far.

But the moment stretches, and stretches on, and the man stays red but he stays frozen, too. Etelia has her chin up, lips quivering and utterly implacable. She’s right, entirely, and they both know it.

“Hey, dad, come on,” Maeve says, trying to get an angle on the tension. “Let us take care of it. You’ll see him when we get a chance to clean him up a little and know what the score is from the doctor, but we need you to cover our asses vis-à-vis our sour-looking hosts while we’re running around. Right, Tels?”

“Right,” Etelia says. “We very badly need our asses covered.”

Ordinarily that would be the kind of moment Maeve would write about in her journal. But today is a strange day. She thinks getting Etelia to say ‘ass’ might still rate, but it will probably be a footnote.

“We’ll come sliding into the dining hall shouting and hooting if there’s any change,” Maeve says. “Promise.”

The king scowls and heaves a breath, but it’s all over. “Damn you, you tigers. Fine. Go, then. I will see him after dinner. He’s to stand on no ceremony whatsoever and I’ll only be a moment in checking on him, if it’s really that disturbing. But I will see him. Am I understood?”

“Yes, my lord,” Etelia says at last. She curtseys. “Thank you.”

“Good. Now, go. I’ll see the both of you at dinner.”

“Yes, my lord.” Etelia backs away a few steps and then runs through the side door again, skirts up around her knees.

The king lets out a long, hard breath. He rubs his hands over his face for a few moments, and slowly turns to look at Maeve. “Why are you still here?”

“Just poleaxed, sir. Can’t move until my knees stop knocking. I love that brave, defiant, defensive lioness act, don’t you?”

The king snorts. “You’re all terrible. You’re killing me. You’re killing your father.”

“Sorry, dad.”

“Go after her. Make yourself useful. I’m going to go pretend I give a shit about dinner.”

“You’re the greatest diplomat of your age, boss.”

The king lets out a rasp of a sound that has nothing to do with humor and everything to do with venting a heart too heavy and too horrified to stay quiet. “Maeve?”

“Sir?”

“Get out of my sight for a while, would you?”

“You got it,” she says. She bows and chases Etelia into the castle. Maeve is faster and not wearing a corset, so of course she catches her. The arms that wind chokingly tight around her neck only slow them down for a few minutes. 

Then they run on.

 

* * *

_To be continued._


	7. Poisoning II

_He has a wholly undeserved reputation as a dragon._

_In fact he is very mild, as Jules and Amelius could tell anyone who asked. He is extremely clear about his expectations and the height of his standards, and he pays very close attention to his staff. He’s no slave driver, and though the hours are long and the work is difficult, he is careful to tell them to go home, to rest, to stay away for a few days, when it is possible to offer such reprieves. Of every burden on their shoulders, he's taken a partial portion onto his own back. All he asks is their best. When they succeed, he approves; when they fail, he offers commiseration and a quiet word that the next time will be better. If he is more comfortable leaving the king to do the praising and back-slapping, what of it? He is the one to tell the king when they have done well enough to merit such attention. That should be enough._

_He is an easy master to serve._

_But yes, all right. Fine. He’s made two grown men cry._

_He can hardly see why. He never raised his voice, not for a moment, and he should imagine that his ice-edged disapproval is easier by far to bear than the look of solemn disappointment in his king’s eyes. There are levels of hell he would rather inhabit than see that. There are levels of hell he would rather swallow._

_And nothing he said, in his quiet and serious way, was undeserved. It was raw incompetence on their parts. His king has missed three extremely important meetings because of faulty scheduling and the talking points that Amelius carefully prepared have been butchered by unready and amateurish delivery._

_They have put his king in the position of needing to explain his staff’s failures. That is never the man’s role._

_Ever._

_When the chief of staff is done with them, he plays for a few minutes with the idea of giving them the sack straightaway. He has no immediate replacements, unfortunately — they were themselves replacements for two staffers who have moved on of their own volition._

_Jules appears in his doorway with a tilt to her lips. The chief of staff gives her a hard look and she holds up both hands._

_“Easy, sir, easy. It’s just me. Do you recognize me or are you still in a froth of bloodlust?”_

_“Speaking to me in that tone of voice seems like a risky way to find out.”_

_“I come in peace, I really do. And more importantly, I come with a solution.”_

_The chief of staff beckons her in. Jules closes the door behind her and meanders up to his desk._

_“Thrill me.”_

_“I know someone who might take Jack’s spot,” Jules says, “if you’re ready to let him chase his dreams in some other organization.”_

_“Qualifications?”_

_“Few, but I’ve seen her work myself. She was a lady-in-waiting in His Majesty’s sister’s court as a girl, but she got gently shuffled away when it didn’t seem her disposition was suited to it. Lately she’s been working in the Ministry of Public Affairs. Amelius met her at a professional thing three years back and he’s kept tabs on her since. He says she’s good and I was impressed with what I saw.”_

_“Mm.” Amelius’ opinion has been increasing in value to him. Soon he’ll be almost as trusted as Jules. “What makes you think she’ll be suitable?”_

_“Nothing, except that she’s good at what she does and she’d like this kind of work. I’ll warn you, she’s eccentric.”_

_“Eccentric.”_

_“Extremely. Very…” Jules wiggles his head. “Hard to describe it. Fiery? Throws herself into things.”_

_“Can she do the work better than Jack?”_

_“I’m beginning to think there’s few who couldn’t.”_

_The chief of staff flattens his lips at her, but Jules just gives him a smirk. He tosses a hand lightly into the air and shakes his head._

_“Please extend the invitation for a cup of coffee, then. She should bring a sample of recent work so I may examine her system.”_

_“Yes, sir. When I’m out I’ll get someone to come in here and mop up the puddles and the snot, shall I?”_

_“Tell them to bring whatever it is that gets tear stains out of the upholstery,” he says, fetching his cane. “His Majesty expects me.”_

_“Yup. He’s down in the training pit with the guards.”_

_Splendid. The chief of staff makes his way down through the castle at a sedate pace, glad to be up and moving for a few minutes. One floor from the ground level, he pauses, looking down the sunny arcaded corridor that looks out over the pit._

_He will go down and speak, yes, but when he arrives his king will see him and he will stop sparring. He does not necessarily wish for that to happen._

_The chief of staff turns his cane handle around in his fingers. Well. He’s made two grown men cry today. He’s already been bad._

_He will be just a little worse._

_He walks over to the first arch and keeps himself tucked just a bit in the shade. If anyone looks, they will see him quite clearly, but their attention won’t be called to his position by any sudden sunlit appearance._

_Below, his king clatters a long stick against an opponent as they clash on the yellow, hard-packed dirt of the sparring arena. The weapons are relatively light and the combatants keep mostly away from one another’s faces, but his king is bare-armed and the chief of staff’s mind flares with frustration at the inadequate protection his king still thinks he can get away with, even with his 50th birthday gaining ever more distance from them. The king's skin is golden and shining with sweat in the sunshine, and even from here the chief of staff can see the radiance of his expression, half delight and half ferocity as he swings the stick at his opponent’s thigh._

_The opponent shoots both knees up to let the stick whiz through the air beneath their body. With the king’s flank unprotected, the opponent targets his shoulder and earns a rueful groan before the king knocks them away and charges once more. Their sticks connect again and again with sharp, hollow clatters. The king's legs are long and powerful, horseman’s thighs flexing into a lunge as he propels himself into motion, landing rather fewer hits than he should. But he does get an arm around his opponent’s and flips them across his back onto the ground, where the opponent lands with a thump._

_The chief of staff's breath hitches and he smiles to see the opponent get back up. Good. His king deserves a challenge._

_The opponent swings wide to push the king back. After a few more connections of the sticks the opponent goes low, rolling and seizing a leg to tumble the king to the earth, flipping him onto his back and hoisting the trapped leg between a shoulder and the stick, pulling him up in an arch. The man grunts and struggles against the grip, grinding his hips in the air and straining to thrash loose, but the opponent holds him tight; trapped. They stay locked in battle for a few moments, until a gong on the sidelines is struck. Point to the opponent._

_The king’s rough barks of surprised laughter push the chief of staff out of the arcade and down the staircase to the pit._

_The king is still on the ground and chatting up at his adversary when the chief of staff emerges into the shade. He clears his throat and lowers his eyes when the king glances over and smiles at him._

_“Forgive the intrusion, sire,” the chief of staff says._

_“Not at all, old man,” the king booms. He’s high on adrenaline and his blood is running hot — it makes him puff like one of his horses, powerful and proud of what his body can still do. The opponent offers the king a hand and he takes it, levering up onto his feet and waving them away. They leave with a bow. “I was wanting you. Come on, come out. A little sunshine will not kill you.”_

_The chief of staff crosses the little training ground to stand by his king’s side. “I have spoken with Jack and Simon, Your Majesty. We will not face a repeat of this week’s unfortunate lapses.”_

_“Poor buggers. I expect they’re dead on the floor of your office?”_

_The chief of staff flexes his cheeks to offer a bloodless smile. “I keep a clean workspace, sire. They have been put tidily away.”_

_The king snorts and claps him on the back, nearly sending him to the earth, and keeps him upright with a hot, heavy hand on his shoulder. “You know who you want in Simon’s spot?”_

_“No, sire.”_

_“Maeve,” the king says. He waves the stick at his opponent. The chief of staff can see now that Maeve is a young woman, currently fighting her cloud of curly brown hair into a tight knot at the top of her head. The king bellows her name. “Maeve!”_

_“Round two already?” she replies. She is very casual in her address to her king, the chief of staff notes. She grins at the chief of staff. “If you’re going to pick him up and use him as a weapon, you’d better let me go get a page boy.”_

_The king gives him a little shake and laughs. “No, no. I wouldn’t risk so much as a dent on this one. You wouldn’t know it, but this man runs the castle and the country and me, most days. You’ll stay on his good side, if you know what’s right for you… you follow the news closely, don’t you?”_

_“Sure enough, boss,” Maeve says. “But everybody does. It’s current events, after all — history sped up. Everybody likes that.”_

_Everybody does not like that, the chief of staff knows, but he’s not expecting this. “You are fond of history, miss?”_

_“The parts that aren’t dull, yes.”_

_“Which parts would be the dull ones?”_

_“Anything about wars,” Maeve replies. “Don’t bother reading the wars except to know who won. Nothing interesting happens in those.”_

_That is not the response he expects from someone spinning and striking and showing an innate tactical understanding of the movements of another person’s body. The chief of staff hums to himself._

_“You should be my press secretary,” the king says. “Would you like the job?”_

_The chief of staff blinks. “Sire…!”_

_“It’s a spot in my office and I might well fill it, mightn’t I?”_

_“Certainly, sire, and at will. But I have only just met this applicant. I would be gratified to know her qualifications…”_

_“Oh, I expect she hasn’t any, quite yet. Do you, Maeve? Nothing to worry about there. You know how to express yourself and you keep abreast of what’s going on. That’s all I really want, but you’d be surprised how hard it is to come by.”_

_Maeve spins her stick. “Office jobs, boss? Not really my oeuvre, if I’m honest, but you know I’ll try anything once. As long as I can still come out here and keep up my moves, I’m your man.”_

_The chief of staff’s mouth drops open, but he’s got nothing to fill it with. The king gives him a smile that is veritably puckish._

_“Speechless? Well, well. I suppose I am pulling rank on you, old man, but it’s for a good cause.”_

_“Sire,” the chief of staff says faintly. “With absolutely no offense intended to the young woman, I have no possible means of evaluating her ability to do this job.”_

_“Well, she can hardly do a worse job than Simon, can she? And if either of you don’t like it, we’ll swap her back out in a twinkling. And don't you worry, my girl. If you’re sick of riding a desk there’s always a spot for you in the guards.”_

_“Ta, pop,” Maeve grins. “Have I got the gig, sir? Happy to come up and fill in some paperwork, if you’ll tell me just what on earth a press secretary does while I’m up there.”_

_The chief of staff looks at the king, but the awful man is just grinning at him; golden, impulsive, challenging._

_Well. He doesn’t think that Maeve is easy to make cry, at least._

_“I suppose you better do,” the chief of staff says slowly. “We will open a 90-day probationary period. Amelius will be able to inform you of the way your position works. He will be your closest colleague.”_

_“Love a smooth solution,” the king says, giving the chief of staff one last pat on the back. “Right, I’m in the showers. Come back in an hour, old man, and we’ll talk about next week’s schedule, yes?”_

_“Yes, sire,” the chief of staff says, and returns to the shade of the castle with a new press secretary still dusting the dirt off of her trousers. Spunky and adventurous she might be, but if she lasts more than a week, he'll eat a rat._

* * *

He surfaces and squints at the dim world around him. He’s been put in an oven, his body cooking in a wet, sticky heat. His leg is hollow; he can’t move it. The nerves have finally died. Maybe they will saw it off.

He knows what’s happened. He’s been here before. Over the hill something has burst and broken his leg from under him. He is so far from home, with such a long way to go, and he has to hold his bones inside with both hands.

He wants to be home. He wants to be in his own country.

Something’s in his mouth. He works his tongue to push it out, but it doesn’t budge. He gurgles around it, reaching a hand up to his head. His hand is hollow, too. When he claws at his face, his fingers stay limp and soft.

Words wander through the air, gasping like gas popping bubbles of mud. A question. He mumbles back a name, a secret he cannot tell on pain of death. The secret lodges thick in his mouth, tasting of fabric and salt.

Hot. He whimpers. Hot, hot, pressing on his skin. Wet, like the rasp of a hellhound’s tongue against him. In his eyes shards of space dazzle and tighten, whirling away and shaking until his gorge rises. Someone appears in the shuddering of his vision. A face he knows and cannot recognize. A cloud of hair.

He closes his eyes. Heat around his head, pulling and tugging, and then the thing in his mouth is gone and he gasps, gagging and closing his mouth, opening it again to pant dry.

Wet, at his mouth. Cold and reeking of earth. He fixes his lips to it and sucks, head craning up on an aching neck to drink. It curdles in his throat and he chokes, swallowing through it. Tastes of stone. More.

“Oh, sir,” reaches his ear, thick and strange. His hollow hands reach up and fix around the wet at his mouth, crushing it like a fruit against his lips, juice trickling through his moustache and beard. He sucks hard, and miles away, someone says, “Jules, get another.”

He pulps the wet against his mouth and when he can drag nothing else out of it, he falls back, gasping. Mumbling. Things he can’t say, he mustn’t, but he can’t die with a chest stuffed so full of words. He’s got to die with empty lungs and he is dying, he is, this is where he dies and he didn’t want to, he wanted to die at home, with his country’s earth to swallow him up.

He wants to leave, he wants to be home, the air is rancid here and he wants to be where he belongs. He went away once and nearly didn’t come back — he doesn’t want to risk it again. He doesn’t want to face the road, the jouncing of the carriage, the brutal pummeling of a horse’s side against his leg. Mud, rain, dirt, dust, and at the end the strangers’ faces, all of them sneering, hiding, whispering, coveting, people, people, endless people, all eyeballs and darting tongues. Strange stones, strange castles he cannot navigate in strange places, and the things his king does when they are gone.

He knows. He knows what his king does when they are gone, slipping off to explore, to escape, to escape him, into a town and a beer hall he thinks no one knows, finding a barmaid he thinks no one can see. The danger of slipping away doesn’t matter to the king because he wants a little relief, a little fun, a little contact with something soft and real and human, nothing like a snake at all — and what that means is his king fucks the barmaid, meaningless, loveless, a stranger. After all the heated looks and all the secret touches his king has made him endure in this hellish game, he is left behind alone to work, left burning alive and knowing it’s happening, working with a quill roasting in his hand while it’s happening meaningless and loveless, happening while he is so full of words, while he would give anything, anything, just to—

Hot. Hot against his lips, and his mouth can’t move against the pressure. He throws himself back and forth, trying to whip it off.

“Jules, I need more water, now!"

He wants to go back. It never happens at home. His king doesn’t do that in the castle. It only happens here, in strange places where death comes creeping up his leg and reaching for his throat. It happens here, where he is going to die, meaningless and loveless.

Wet again against his mouth. Cold. He bites into it, slurping hard. He swallows twice more, and then it’s over — darkness swallows him down, away from the pressure of the oven and the boom of the guns in his ears, the streaks of water on his face and the ache of the words pushing their way out through his ribs.

* * *

_She is, in fact, an eccentric._

_The chief of staff finds himself on the bleeding edge of smiling several times as they talk and drink their coffee. Etelia is a graceful woman. When she stands she seems to rise from the floor as straight and tall as an iris in bloom. She wears blue from her neck to her ankles, with her forearms bared beneath the lace frills at the elbows of her dress. Her wrists and fingertips are stained with ink._

_The first thing she did upon entering his office was reach out over his desk and shuffle his papers into a neat stack. She set a coaster beneath his ink pot._

_It’s been three years and even Jules doesn’t dare touch his desk without permission._

_He has asked her the usual questions and requested that she walk him through her system for restructuring the Ministry of Public Affairs. She brought him three plans, a one-year, a five-year, and a ten-year system, and an index that highlights the differences and the weaknesses of each new hierarchy._

_“Of course it’d go rather smoother if we could do away with the whole ministry,” she sighs. “Everything in government is a public affair. It’s no good tucking it into one building and hoping it will stay there. The silo is the enemy of permanent order. We’d have better luck keeping our public affairs free-range and trying to teach them some boundaries.”_

_“What is the most difficult secret you’ve ever kept?” he inquires._

_She looks embarrassed that he would even ask. “Oh, I couldn’t tell you that, sir.”_

_“You would have to keep secrets in this position. In fact, the things you may be expected to remain silent about could be things no one will tell you are secrets. You would be responsible for keeping them secret nevertheless.”_

_“Oh, I do not like to talk about work, sir,” she replies. “I don’t talk to many people at all, you see, and I cannot imagine that I will change that policy.”_

_“You will never be tempted to describe what you do? Not to parents? Lovers? Friends?”_

_“I do not find myself interesting in the least, sir, and generally no one else does, either. Moreover, anyone who cannot understand my need for discretion has proven themselves unworthy of it.” She blows a little puff of steam off of her cup of coffee. “I would not continue my association with someone who pushed me, no matter which of those three categories they might inhabit.”_

_It’s a good enough answer, if it’s the truth. He looks her up and down, and as he looks the needle of his internal lie detector shifts to the negative. Time will tell, but if she really believes that, it will make her an excellent employee. A miserable woman, but an excellent employee. Does she think there is safety to be had, if she only keeps herself alone in the cold?_

_He knows better, but for the moment he has no business correcting someone else’s grievous existential errors. He’s is not inclined to speak of personal matters with strangers, and even if he were he’s got little enough high ground to lecture, anyway._

_Now, they sit in silence. It’s a move that has never let him down — when he waits, his silence has a weight and a density to it, puts a grey tinge in the air. It’s a gloom that very few people can endure with any comfort. Jules can withstand it for five minutes at a go, but it breaks Maeve like an egg, and she’ll come in talking and go for twenty minutes with barely a breath before he takes pity and responds._

_Etelia doesn’t seem to notice that it’s quiet. She fills her cup of coffee with a sickening number of sugar cubes and stirs it so carefully that the spoon doesn’t grate the inside of the cup. She sits with her ankles crossed and the toes of her shoes peeping out from the hem of her skirt, calves tilted at a demure angle. She is straight up on the cushion, with her elbows at her sides and off the arms of the chair. Nothing touches her, he thinks. She touches nothing._

_She doesn’t smile at him nervously or fidget, not one little twitch. He watches her, thinking, wondering, looking for the tell. Their eyes meet at last and she does give him a little smile, empty entirely of guile or concern. In her eyes there are no expectations, only—_

_He realizes with a rather disorienting lurch that she is enjoying their time together. She sees nothing strange about this, not at all. She is very comfortable in her rigid posture and his dismal silence._

_“I would like to set up a meeting with His Majesty,” he says at last. He speaks first, and the novelty of it turns his lips up at the edges._

_“Very good, sir. May I summon the current private secretary to request an appointment?”_

_“Not a meeting for me, Etelia,” he says. “For you.”_

_“I should be honored to be presented before His Majesty.”_

_“I’m glad to hear it.” He reaches for his cane. “We’ll go now.”_

_Her large blue eyes widen. “Now? Without an appointment?”_

_“Yes. His Majesty enjoys spontaneity, now and then. This will please him.”_

_“Sir, you shock me!” Etelia says, popping to her feet. “His time is too valuable to be hijacked at a moment’s notice! There is protocol!”_

_“I don’t disagree, but here we are, laboring in the dark without a capable private secretary,” he says. “He is a difficult man to bridle, Etelia, I shall tell you now. Now, come along. If you wish to serve in this capacity, a certain comfort with informality will benefit you. You had better practice now.”_

_He holds the door open for her and watches her brush down her skirt and adjust her lacy sleeves. Beneath the pinch of frustration in her eyebrows a certain steely determination sets her lips and nearly makes him smile again. His king’s pleasure is the deciding factor in her employment, but oh — if that is determination to succeed, and not to impose order..._

_Well. If she doesn’t get on with the king, he’ll make her his private secretary instead._

* * *

The castle is completely cleared and fresh guards have been posted at every gate and door. It doesn’t matter. If he was ever here, this Garou person is gone. The principle thing it affects is dinner, which takes an eternity to pass. 

All through the meal, Etelia hovers behind the king, mute and pale, and he knows it’s not unnoticed that he barely finishes anything on his plate, but he can’t bring himself to give a damn about it.

As soon as their hosts rise from the table, he excuses himself on an urgent bit of business and drags Etelia along with him.

Back in the stables, he wanted to shout down the castle walls. Maeve _and_ Etelia _and_ the other two, he had no doubt, all conspiring to keep him away from his advisor when the man lay on death’s doorstep? Do they think he’s a child, to be lead away from ugly truth by the nose? The thought of his advisor suffering something powerful enough to take the man’s feet out from under him makes his guts knot, but he knows the man must someday die. He's not nearly as invulnerable as he'd like to be imagined.

His advisor doesn’t get sick; or he does, but he works through it. Many are the times he’s seen the man come to him pink-cheeked and swaying from fever, making a report about fish taxes or God-knows-what as if he’s fit as a fiddle. It takes an actual order from him, the highest official and authority in the realm, for the mad bastard to take any bedrest.

Standing on ceremony, when he can’t even stand? It makes his whole brain catch fire with fury, but of course Etelia was right. Yes, his serpent would try to bow and scrape at the sight of him, no matter what — but damn it all, he hates it. Hates it.

And the words she used: hurting. The man was hurting too badly to bear the extra attention. The thought makes him feel sick himself.

Now, they are in the corridor and he’s got Etelia by the arm. He has waited the hours he promised but he will be denied no longer.

“Where is he,” he demands. He doesn’t bother to pause his gait.

“Amelius’ room, my lord,” Etelia mumbles, meek as a lamb. “I’ll lead you. This way.”

The twisting, turning corridors begin to close in as they head for the servant’s quarters, and rage starts building under his skin at the state of the accommodations his people have been herded into. He knows it’s not as bad as the red film over his eyes would make it seem, but all the same he wouldn’t have such a wing in his castle for love or money.  

Amelius’ room is at the end of the hall, then, and the sounds coming from inside it make his knees feel like water.

He stops short and looks at Etelia.

“What am I about to see, here?” he asks her.

She gives him a big-eyed look. Her lips quiver.

“Etelia!”

“He’s— calmer!” she cries. “Much calmer than he was. The doctor says he’s just got water left in him and we mustn’t feed him anything yet because he’ll only bring it up. She says— she doesn’t know if he will—“

She covers her mouth with her hand. He can’t stand it, so he reaches for the door and pulls it open.

Jules and Maeve shoot to their feet out of a pair of uncomfortable-looking chairs. They’ve been sitting at the side of a narrow bed dressed in rumpled linen and containing a thin, frail body that intermittently releases a low, raking gasp. It’s his advisor, of course, ashen except for the stark red flush up his neck and in his cheeks. The chief of staff is dressed in a pair of breeches the king recognizes as belonging to Amelius, and nothing else. His sweat leaves him looking slick as a sea creature.

And he’s gagged. The king looks at Etelia.

“What,” he says slowly, “is on his face.”

Etelia swallows. “He asked us to—“

He looks back at Jules and Maeve and rasps, “You’re keeping him _gagged.”_ He wants to shout, but the advisor doesn’t appear conscious, and God knows he needs to sleep.

“We’re afraid he’ll bite out his tongue,” Maeve says. “He’s been seizing. It’s better to keep it in than try to catch him in time.”

He has to close his eyes or the sight of his advisor so cruelly bound will turn his stomach. Was it not enough that the man was mindless with pain and poison? To keep him gagged like an animal was a hideous insult.

The man whimpers and all his ferocity vanishes. He’s never so much as seen his advisor’s forearms; this vision of him, nearly naked and wracked with pain, trembling in the grip of poison, makes the king’s whole body urge towards him, pulled by something deep in the very veins.

He holds himself back. This is worse than he’d been imagining, even though they'd had plenty of time to put his advisor in the best possible condition. This is as presentable as he can be. They were right. The man would be horrified to be seen like this.

“He’s unconscious?” Maeve grunts an affirmative. “All right. And the doctor?”

“She says they’ve gotten out as much as they will,” Jules says. “We’ll bleed him again in a few hours, but we can’t keep doing it. It’s up to him now.”

Oh, God. He makes himself breathe. “I meant, where is she?”

“Amelius took her down to get something to eat.”

“Fine. Maeve, you and me.”

“What’s that?”

“We’re going to move him to my room,” the king says. “In fact we’re going to move all of you, but him first. Maeve, you and I are going to put him in a chair and carry him there.”

“The doctor hasn’t told us if it’s safe to move him,” Etelia says.

“He’s got nothing but water in him. What could he possibly vomit up?” the king asks. He looks at the bed, the room, the chairs in which they’ve been keeping they vigil. Gray stone, old grout — the cold leaks through and stays, damp and greenish on the walls. Damn Belaria to hell. Who lets people live here? “Chances are he’s half in pain from this farce of a mattress. We’ll put him in my bed and he might rest easier.”

The women hold their peace for a moment or two, until Jules nods. “Yes, my lord.”

“Come on. We’ll be quick and keep him out of sight.”

It takes them too long, even moving as fast as they dare. But when they manage to settle the chief of staff in the king’s own bed, and the man’s body goes slack and shivers all over, eyes opening for a moment to roll sightlessly and disappear back behind his eyelids…

It’s a little bit better. Just a little bit.

When she and Amelius return, the doctor reams him out for moving the advisor and flutters over her patient, but he’s got his kids and his chief of staff all assembled around him, and fresh clothes for the man to wear, and pitchers of water waiting, so. They can’t pretend it’s worse than bleeding him in that dingy little room.

And if nothing else, here, he can watch over him.

* * *

He surfaces once more. All around him is bright, very bright, full daylight, and he rolls over on a bed he knows is too big without knowing how he knows. His leg is splitting with pain and his whole soul has been sucked down into it. Headless and limbless except for the pulsing stretch of pain that has eaten him. He lays on the bed, hissing for breath.

Someone is murmuring his name, soft and slow, far away. Once. Twice. They ask if he can hear them. Not really. But he knows the voice, because it’s the one his soul reaches out for, wrapping itself in a thin and tightly-knit layer of memories each night as if that will keep him safe from the glutless deeps of the night. His blood knows this voice, has danced to its music a thousand times, and the voice— knows him. Calls him by his name. The voice tugs him between itself and the pain in his flesh, but the pain wins, even with the voice knowing him and cupping his soul in the swell of its sound.

His hair shifts. Warm touch, too much for his feverish skin to endure. He is going to peel out of his skin, shed the cracking surface of his body and slip away, new and clean and soft as a fresh worm. No more bones or veins; just a curling peel of flesh, risen in the rain and free to burrow back down, safe and hidden in soft earth.

He is at the very end. Inside him, lights are flickering out, one by one. The voice comes on a breath that turns one more flame to curling smoke.

He whispers back, another secret, another name, his lungs pierced and leaking. There’s one more inside him. One more thing he hasn’t said. He must. He must, before the last light is out. One last thing.

What is it? He can’t remember. He’s never needed to remember it, because he’s written it down everywhere. It’s in every cell of his body, on every breath that passes through him, but he can’t… now, when he needs them, the words are lost. What is it?

What is it?

“Water,” he croaks, and if he gets it, he doesn’t know. Darkness takes him again.

* * *

_His dancing days are done. He’d never been frantic for parties in the first place, but ever since that white-hot moment on a faraway hill and the long smear of red road he crawled to get back home, he’s found himself wishing he’d taken more turns. One more chance to stand up with a young woman or risk himself being spun and held in the arms of a man — what would it have hurt?_

_At least he can watch. Dances please him, when ten or more people do them. The passes and turnings and the steady locking and unlocking of bodies offer a few moments of calm. He likes the sight of men and women weaving in and out of each other’s spheres in a strict, complex pattern, one which is voluntary and agreeable to everyone participating. For a little while, he can see what heaven must be like; steady, stately pleasure, precisely ordered._

_He watches, catching sight now and then of the king moving through the steps with the Countess dela Roque. The light of the chandeliers glint on his golden hair and the violet silk of his clothing. There is a smile on his king’s face and the sight of it makes his heart unfold happily in his chest. HIs king is content, at present, and he may leave the man to it._

_He turns and begins to head out of the ballroom. He won’t be missed if he goes to the office for an hour or so. So many guests. So much to do._

_In the hallway, he finds Maeve and Jules hiding wine glasses behind their backs. They give him equally radiant innocent smiles and he tilts an eyebrow up at them just a bit. Of course they may have whatever they please from the banquet, but he wants them to know he knows._

_They're both flushed. Is it so warm?_

_“There you are,” Maeve says. “Come on over, boss, take a break.”_

_“I have a few things to see to in my office.”_

_“Sir, at the rate we’re going we’ll be up all night,” Jules insists. She hiccups. “Take a breather where you can find it. Plus, we’re hiding and we need a chaperone.”_

_“You’re adults. What have you got to hide from?”_

_“Dancers. The ambassador from Delgrade found out I can do the hopak and now she won’t drop it, and I’m sure as hell not doing a hopak in a ballgown. Come protect us from the predations of a soused dignitary.”_

_“We stole cakes,” Maeve sings, wiggling a small dessert at him. He hesitates for a moment or two, thinking of the notes he needs to record before it’s all out of his head, but the dancing petit fours_ are _rather tempting. He comes over._

_“Are Etelia and Amelius still in there?" Jules asks him. "Amelius says he can’t dance but everyone knows that’s bullshit. He was born to pirouette.”_

_“He does appear to have a rather small turn radius,” the chief of staff says, holding a cake between his thumb and forefinger. “And I have see him perform a very serviceable grand jeté when he needs to clear a puddle.”_

_“I took a spin with the Baroness Cicillia,” Maeve grins._

_“Did you? I don’t believe I saw you stand up,” the chief of staff says._

_A pregnant pause ensues. He eats the cake and says, “Ah.”_

_“What about you, boss?” Maeve asks brightly. “Anybody ask for the pleasure of your hand?”_

_The chief of staff gives her a stare and shifts his weight to his good leg. He holds his cane up, foot pointing towards the ceiling, in case she needs any illustration._

_“Oh, that is such quitter talk,” Maeve says. “Of course you can still dance.”_

_“I can manage a stately promenade, if that’s what you mean.”_

_“No way. Jules, c’mon, I’ve got a point to prove.”_

_The chief of staff frowns. “I don’t know what you think you’re going to go, but you had better--"_

_Maeve seizes his left arm and drapes it across her shoulders. She waves to Jules, who has the temerity to grin as she takes his other arm similarly. The chief of staff stares at her, bug-eyed, because it's just clicked that Jules is drunk as a skunk. He's never seen her in such a state before and he's sure Maeve is to blame. It certainly explains this unwonted playfulness._

_They wrap their arms around his back to hold him tight and wedge themselves against him, hips and shoulders pressing into his._

_“This looks better with more than three people,” Maeve admits. “Now, just lean your weight on us--"_

_“This is absolutely ridiculous and you will unhand me at--"_

_“And we’ll hold you up. All right, a-one, a-two, a-three…” Maeve shuffles her feet along with the music floating out of the ballroom, three steps to the side and then a small kick. Jules watches for a moment and mimics her, and in a few seconds he’s the only one refusing to pick up the rhythm and move._

_“I know this song. It's old as dirt. There are dirty lyrics you can sing to the tune,” Jules says. “Shall we demonstrate?”_

_The chief of staff grumbles and carefully sticks out a foot in time with the kick. Maeve laughs and tugs him along, three steps and a kick, and she starts going “hey!” with every flick of her foot._

_They are warm, the two of them, and the music is clear in the air. He does know this song, although it's been years since he's heard it. He is fond of music, little as he makes time to listen to it. He begins to nod with the rhythm, working his shoulders to square his weight on Jules and Maeve when he kicks with his good foot. He misses and stumbles frequently, and grimaces at himself. The beauty of dancing is the way it looks effortless, and nothing he does has an easy grace, but it proves a point he’s made over and over again. Easy is a function of repetition. He might be able to learn grace if he keeps working at it._

_Beside him, Jules begins to softly chant lyrics to the song. He almost scolds her before recognizing the soft vowels of their shared native dialect. They’ve both trained themselves out of their eastern accents and dropped most of the colloquialisms, but at the sound of her voice the words come flowing back fast: something about a dog looking for food, a little innuendo-laden but nothing foul. He listens to her go through the first stanza and when she falters for the next, he picks it up, getting a laugh from Jules and a squeeze around the waist from Maeve._

_“All right, now an advanced step,” Maeve says, and changes up the pace on them. Faster, more complicated, forward and back as well as side-to-side. When they move they bounce, feet trotting across the marble, Jules singing louder and he mumbling quietly beneath her._

_“What are you doing?”_

_Etelia is standing in the doorway to the ballroom, opposite hands clutching her elbows stiffly. Beside her, Amelius is grinning. The chief of staff's muscles lock._

_“Why are you carrying him?” Etelia adds. “Sir, are you injured?”_

_“No,” he says. “I am-- not. Not injured.”_

_“Oh, don’t be such a crab-apple,” Jules sighs._

_Maeve gives him a little hoist, settling his weight more firmly on her body. He scrambles a little against her, embarrassed. “C’mon, Tels, we’re daddy-daughter dancing. Get in here.”_

_“I will not,” Etelia sniffs, “and that idiotic joke about our parentage is not nearly as funny as you seem to think it is."_

_“Can I join?” Amelius asks. The chief of staff gives him a glare but his smile just spreads._

_“Oh, yes, of course. You’re totally a daughter, come get your piece of all this paternal affection.”_

_The chief of staff lurches his arm off of Jules’ shoulder to cover his face with a hand, but Amelius simply wedges himself in alongside Maeve and joins the steps like he’s known them forever. As Maeve starts to move again he grabs Jules’s shoulders to keep from being thrown off, and in seconds he's trying not to smile at her bones jouncing against his own._

_Jules starts singing again. Amelius doesn't know the words, so he mimics the sounds. Maeve takes all of his weight and doesn't let his bad foot touch the ground for more than an instant._

_Etelia does join, later, but not without a lot of head shaking and scoffing, offering fervent prayers that His Majesty will not happen to step out and witness the shame of his personal staff gamboling like peasants._

_She’s a good kid, he thinks before he can stop himself._

_He loses the chance to get the paperwork done._ _But when he weighs it against what he’s just gotten back, he finds he doesn’t mind nearly as much as he should._

* * *

Once his advisor is settled, the king goes and petitions their hosts for better places for the kids to sleep. It’s his damn chief of staff who could pay the price for keeping everybody flung far afield, so even though the Belarian royal family look at him like he’s grown a few extra heads, they accommodate him. The kids stay up as long as they can, but Jules and Amelius fall over first, and when Etelia and Maeve help them safely leave the room, none of them come back.

Good. He should have his turn to sit vigil. The doctor bled the chief of staff once more before retiring to bed, and now it’s just him and his advisor and his advisor’s poor, poisoned, lacerated thigh.

He keeps a candle going and reads the latest batch of post. Some of it he reads aloud, on the chance that there’s a deep-buried conscious part of his chief of staff, currently furious at how much time is being wasted on this nonsense. The man would never want to be out of the loop.

Around midnight, the chief of staff stirs. He’s been doing that lately, shifting slowly in sleep and sometimes emitting a soft whimper. The king hushes him softly and keeps his eyes on the page.

The chief of staff lets out a small, exhausted noise, and then rasps, “Sire.”

The king’s head pops up, hope hot as a coal in his throat. But in the candlelight his advisor’s dark eyes are darting and glazed, unseeing where they land on him and jitter off. He’s not here at all; he’s somewhere further out, beyond recognition, beyond any form of coherence or understanding.

“Sire?”

The king reaches out and takes the chief of staff’s wrist, laying his fingers across the veins. The reedy, fast pulse taps nervously against the pads of his fingertips and he swallows.

“I’m here, old man, don’t worry.” Can words even reach his advisor now? “You’ll be well soon. The physician will make sure of it.”

“Sire, I can’t… I…” The chief of staff whimpers, wracked with heat and pain. Under the sheets, his bad leg quakes unconsciously. “I will die here.”

“Shhh,” he breathes, laying a hand across the man’s brow. “No, you won’t. None of that, now. You’ll be well soon. Just rest.”

“Rudolph...” 

The king’s breath catches at the sound of his name. The chief of staff has never called him that. Never. 

“It’s all right,” he murmurs. “I’m right here. You’ll be just fine. Let yourself rest.”

“No. Rudolph, I will die here. I must tell you—”

Rudolph hushes him again, looking guiltily at the gag. He’d nearly been set off again by Jules tying up a new bit out of an old neckerchief, but they slowly won him over as to its necessity. The man had wanted his tongue cut out — who’s to say he mightn’t bite it out himself, given a delirious, terrified spasm of control? He was so afraid of breathing a word of the things he knew. He might take matters into his own mouth.

So, for the meaningless fever whispers and for the paroxysms they kept it in, cushioned to keep him as comfortable as possible. It’s still hideous.

“Rudolph, please!” The chief of staff scrabbles for his hands, unseeing and clutching. His advisor’s hands are always cold, but tonight they are hot and stick to him where they touch. “Please, sire, I will die here, I must—“

His body locks in a contortion and he thrashes, twisting and heaving in the bed. He’s so frail and so thin; in a fit, his body looks like it is trying to shake itself apart, shatter the connections between his bones and leave him to fall in tatters to the mattress. Rudolph grips his hand hard, forcing himself to keep his distance, to stop from crowding into bed with the man and holding him together with both hands.

It passes slowly, spasms becoming wracking shudders and finally shivers and a desperate, uncontrollable trembling.

“Please,” his advisor gasps, gulping down breath. “Please. Please. Rudolph, please—”

Heart cracking in his chest, the king reaches for the gag and brings it to the man’s face. 

“Shh, shh, it’s all right. You can tell me when you’re back on your feet…”

“N-… no, I am going to die here, please, don’t—“

The king carefully opens his advisor’s mouth. The man lets out a ragged whimper and clutches at his wrist, but these are the only protests, and when Rudolph reaches for his chin he holds still, meek and silent. Rudolph presses a thumb to the edge of his teeth and gently pushes the gag between his jaws.

“You will not die here,” the king says softly. He tilts his advisor’s head and ties the gag. “Anything you need to tell me I’ll hear when you’re well. No matter what it is, you’ll never forgive me if I let you say it while you’re in this state.”

He settles the man back down on his pillow, stroking fingers through his hair as he goes. His advisor’s sightless eyes shine with tears and the king’s heart gives a lurch. This hateful fever — when he finds out who poisoned his advisor, he’s going anatomize the son of a bitch living. It’d be a good recompense for flaying his chief of staff; it’s beyond cruel, to take a man of such still and silent depths and drag his heart so close to the surface of himself that it blisters in the light of day. He has never wanted to see his advisor like this, vulnerable in a manner that has nothing to do with trust or affection or happiness, but a venom in his veins that’s got him thinking he’s going to die.

The king settles back in his seat and tries to smile, on the chance that his serpent will see it and find any comfort in it.

“Let yourself sleep, my friend. You’ll be well in the morning.”

There’s a final whimper, a final blink of those dark eyes, and then he yields. Obedient and trusting now as ever, and it makes Rudolph’s throat seize. He tries to read the post but all he can do is listen to the gasps, hot and frantic like the breathing of a sickly puppy, until they slow. Until they slow, and grow slower, and slower, until they’re nearly gone.

* * *

_Etelia is his wild card. He knows it, even if she doesn’t see it yet. She is so obedient, so dedicated, so eager to be thought cold and passionless. He’s going to turn her from that path — only pain waits there, and no safety at all, and for the world he wouldn’t see her suffer that. She is still so young and so ready to know joy. Her spark is so small and quiet, and he feeds it scraps to build its strength until she is ready._

_Maeve is nothing like him. Sometimes it’s conscious, sometimes natural, but both have the same effect. They never, ever move in lock-step, but for all her frivolity she takes the important things seriously, loyalty and truth and the careful difference between one word and the next. Her judgement of people is superior to anyone else’s he’s ever known; she knows what to do with them. She can be trusted without hesitation. She moves backwards when he moves forwards. They can never march together. Instead they dance._

_Amelius burns like a torch. He is not the ink or the quill or even the idea but somehow the shapes of words themselves. He is light on a landscape, illuminating geological features so obvious that they are hidden, _the puddles that are only seen when they catch and cradle streams of ink-dark rain_. What his words reveal are the shapes and figures of the truth — the tools that will carve truth free of the darkness. Amelius is better than a voice._

_Jules is his first, the one who dares to change his path. She will walk beside him, follow him if he asks, and never make a stupid step just because he was the one to make it before. She sees what he does not, stands where he falls, turns the diamond of their nation to show him a new face, a new plane of possibility. She beats the “I” out of ideals and makes the country immeasurably richer in the transaction. They are lost without her._

_And his king… the radiant soul of his nation. His eidolon, as beyond his grasp and sublime as a firewhirl. He will pull his king’s dreams out of the night sky and with his bare hands build them out of mud and clay. The machines he makes will lift men up to the heights of his king’s best intentions, so they all rise to his level. And he, bloodless, he, the snake, he that is all machinery, cold gears and cogs — he will drink deep of this crackling bolt of energy from heaven. A taste can power him for a thousand years and more._

_They are his. They have no way of knowing, but they are his, and he is utterly and entirely and without hesitation theirs._

_And what is he to them? A suture. He is absolutely vital to hold them in place. The body of the executive office was in a poor condition when he stepped in, but he has given it new blood and muscles and covered it with soft, clean skin. He has bound them together and held them tight, until they healed into one another. At last they are whole._

_And when a body is whole, the sutures may be removed, and discarded._

* * *

He is waiting. Luckily, he’s good at it.

It is very quiet all around him. There is nothing to see, so he doesn’t see. Eyes have become unnecessary to him. Softly the thoughts come; he does not grasp for them. Somewhere something hurts, but he does not feel it enough for it to matter. He knows he is stuck in something unsightly and unpleasant, a foulness all around him, and he shifts, slips, and starts to leave it.

He can leave this sticky, hot puddle of skin, if he wants to. He can slide out and be gone. He has words inside him, still, but they are so deep and dark and he is so tired that there is no way to dredge them up to the light once more. They will stay down inside him, and rot there.

He is almost empty now. Every breath carries another piece of life out with it. Here is a little more heat from the furnace of his heart; here is a little more of a voice thinned to threads. His atoms are slowly drifting apart.

He did not want to die here, but he is no longer given an option.

He listens through the dark, waiting for something on the other side. A hand of bones to take his shoulder; a hand of fire to strike his face. Something. Soon.

“Can you hear me?”

Oh. Not what he’d been expecting, not at all. It’s a kind voice, gentle. He might’ve known it from somewhere, once.

“Don’t go. Please.”

It’s not his decision to make. He has always gone where he was told to go, without hesitation or question, and all of that obedience led him here, now. To the nowhere else he will ever be.

“I have too much I want to do, old man. Much too much. The country needs you. I need you, very, very badly. Do you know what you are to the nation? To me? I remember how desperate I was to have you in my office. I threw Fauberhel out like yesterday’s fish, and I’d have picked him up and tossed him from a parapet if it would’ve brought you in sooner. He said you were a slimy upstart with delusions of grandeur, so of course I went and read your treatise on floating exchange rates. You were so quiet in person, but on the page! You saw everything I saw of the future the country could have, but you knew how to make it real. The debt I owe those damn fools in the eastern provinces for turning you away, so that I could have you…”

He knows this voice. He does, but how? The dark is so quiet and the voice is not much louder, but he, or something that he thinks he is, turns to follow it. The voice is a river, a slow trickle through the darkness towards a deep sea, somewhere waiting far ahead of him. It is a line, and it leads into a softer dark, a dark that is warm and full.

“You don’t die like this. You don’t leave me like this after 15 years. I do not release you from your duties, if that’s the only way you’ll listen to me.”

Duty. Yes, he remembers that, the old grind of the bones in his spine straightening to stand for his duty. Shoulders back. The calm cold of his mind when he focuses down on the tasks before him, the purity of his reasons for doing them. He does not leave things unfinished. What duties have been neglected?

“You owe me 20 years. 30, at least. There is too much left to do, my dear friend. We’ve barely even started to bring your policies to life. I need you too much to let you go now. Do you know what they are doing in the House of Lords to your investment plan for universities? You wouldn’t let them butcher your beautiful legislation, not if I know you. And I know you. You won’t stand for it. You’ll go down there with your quiet roll of thunder and only come back once you’ve cooked all their hearts on a spit.”

The House of Lords? Those stupid bastards. Every single day it’s some new, imbecilic—

“Come back to me. You must come back to me. I need you, you old serpent, and I cannot do this without you. I order you. I beg you. You cannot go. Please, my dear, you cannot go.”

Oh, sire. Rudolph.

He pulls a breath down, deep as he can, and it rattles in his chest. The voice stops in a choke but he cannot focus on that; there is just this one vast gulp of breath, all the air in the heavens filling his lungs to carry up these last dim, twisted words, the ones he’s kept down so long, so quietly.

“I… Rudolph, I…”

He staggers. The darkness wraps around him, tight, and pain lances up through his leg and sears across his brain, cooking it inside his skull. The breath shreds out of him, leaving the words to fall back into his guts once more. Another smaller breath comes to fill him in its place. He rolls with pain, with burning electricity, veins stinging in the horrible sticky lump that is his flesh, his living body, his prison, trapping him again. Another breath follows. Another.

“… y-yes? Can you hear me?”

He slips, in the dark. He slips and he falls, down into the river of his beloved’s voice. He doesn’t even try to swim; the pain is too strong. He sinks and disappears beneath the waves, taken whole into the full dark of the quiet voice.

* * *

He rises again. Wakes, with a short, sharp inhalation through his nose. Consciousness lurches into his body.

Dizzy though he is, he begins accumulating facts before he opens his eyes. Daylight, to judge of the red beyond his eyelids. Terrible pain, screaming in his bad leg. Will they not cut the thing off, at last, and let him be done with it? Throat dry, face tight, teeth foul. Naked, mostly. Bladder full. Must rise, urinate, wash, dress, and then go present himself. Apologize for the lateness of his appearance.

Where is he? This isn’t home. Smells all wrong. They were home, weren’t they, when he went to bed?

Hurts. Hurts everywhere, but pain is an old familiar, and he knows all its little tricks. Once he lets it have a hold in his head he will never be able to rise. Best to ignore it. It is the animal, not the man, that hurts.

His elbows are almost underneath him when a strong hand seizes his shoulder and pushes him down.

“Would you lie still, you bloody imbecile?”

He opens his eyes. His king looms over him, holding him down to the bed. He looks a little blurry, because the chief of staff’s glasses are off, but he’s close enough that his eyes are almost clear. Even if they weren’t, the chief of staff knows them so well he can imagine them perfectly: hazel and green, beautiful, alive and shining and ferocious in the morning sunshine.

The king barks at him. “You’re still poisoned, jackass! What do you think you’re doing?”

There are a dozen half-replies that crack through his synapses, like lightning snapping between his temples.

But what he says is, “Sire, certain bodily necessities are making themselves oppressively felt.”

The king stares down at him. He stares up at the king.

The man’s mouth twitches violently. “You’re telling me you need to piss?”

His eyes widen at the vulgarity. When he speaks, he cannot keep a thread of disapproval out of his tone. “Sire.”

When his king finally stops laughing at him, he’s really verging on urgent. He fists a hand in the linens of the bed — God’s blood, they are fine, where is he, whose bed is this? — and makes himself look statue-like.

“Here,” his king says. He lifts up a chamber pot and places it between his legs. The chief of staff feels hot shame flush up his neck. “Sort yourself out, my man. I’ll step out and let the kids know you’re back with us, at long last.”

“Where? How long…?”

“Belaria. Three days, old man. You stopped breathing twice.”

“I see.” He shifts his eyes from the king’s face and up to the ceiling. Belaria. Three days? No. “We are behind schedule, sire. We were only to spend two days in Belaria. We should be on the road.”

The king leans into his line of sight and fills it, scowling. “I am going to smother you with a pillow! You had me scared almost lifeless, you damned dog! Don’t presume to lecture me about schedules when you nearly died in my bed!”

Perhaps that was rather indelicate, after all. “Apologies, sire. I am still adjusting to the thought that I have lost three days’ time. It was the first thing in my head.”

“Yes, that, and not how terrified you had me and the staff, you absolute gibbering moron.”

Terrified? What on earth. “I am sorry, sire. I did not intend to displease you.”

“Oh, you have nothing… damn it, must you take everything so bloody seriously?”

The king leans much too close and cups his cheek, and oh — his hands are warm, and the chief of staff is absolutely disgusting, but the man just strokes a thumb over his cheekbone and looks into his eyes. He smiles at whatever it is he sees in them. The chief of staff can only stare back at him, wide-eyed.

“I am pleased,” the king says, much more gently. “More pleased and more relieved than I’ve been in years, blast it, just to see you being yourself, with your brain working behind your eyes once more. Glad even to see that inscrutable death’s mask you can a facial expression. Promise me you won’t get assassinated again.”

“I have little power over that, sire, ashamed as I am to admit the weakness.”

“I am your king and I will be unreasonable in my demands. Promise me.”

His belly is tight with discomfort and yet, yet. He doesn’t want his king to leave him, not for a moment. Never again.

“I… serve at your pleasure, sire,” he says. “Nothing will separate me from my duty to you, as long as you will it.”

“Good. Good.” The king grins at him and pats his face twice. He leans back and rises from his chair, walking to the door. “I’ll give you five minutes to make yourself decent, and then I think you’d better brace yourself to be hugged and very possibly kissed by the kids. I suggest you submit quietly to it and don’t give them a lot of guff about professionalism. They’ve been frantic.”

“You should not indulge Maeve’s ridiculous family narrative, sire.”

“Too damn late for that by half. I’ve commissioned us all matching clothes for a portrait. I’ll be right back.”

He waits until the door is closed before scrambling at the fastenings of his breeches.

Relieved, chamberpot on the floor and out of the way, pain screaming in his leg, he pulls the breeches back up. He covers his torso with a throw blanket, checks that his hair is tied back as neatly as possible, and plucks his eyeglasses off of the end table, fitting them onto his nose. He blinks, looking around the room. Yes, this is the king’s temporary bedchamber.

He wonders how he got here. He wonders where his cane is. He wonders what the soggy knotted neckerchief at the foot of the bed is for.

He wonders, but as he lays slumped and exhausted on the pillows, familiar voices start to rise in the corridor. Every question falls out of his head and a smile he cannot stop spreads across his face.

They’ll tell him what happened eventually, he is sure. He hopes it wasn’t very inconvenient.

* * *

_“So,” says the handsome man with the razor-wire smile. “You are the architect of Albertina’s happiness!”_

_The chief of staff looks up from his dinner plate with some surprise. The Belarian court is not accustomed to eating in the company of servants, so he’s seated at the creaky end of a table that has been hauled up from the basement for the express purpose of seating the rabble. He’s been keeping an eye on the king, most of the evening, so he didn’t notice when this man sat down beside him. He must have entered the dining hall with them and sat down with them as well. Certainly he hadn’t registered much movement from that seat before now._

_The chief of staff looks at the barbed smile. He does not know this man. He would prefer to remain so happily ignorant._

_“I believe the honor you afford me is actually due Her Grace Rosaria the magna ducissa,” the chief of staff says. “But you are very kind all the same.”_

_The man with the horrible smile breaks his bread roll with his thumbs and laughs brightly. “Oh no, no. Don’t play coy! I know you are the one who made the match. They told me I would recognize you, and they were right. I would know you anywhere.”_

_“Then you have the advantage, sir. I do not believe we have been introduced.”_

_“My name is Garou. I am a friend from Horuel.”_

_A nerve in the chief of staff’s belly pings. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Garou.”_

_“Don’t feel awkward just because I’m from Horuel!” Garou grins. “All is fair in love and war, as you say. But you are a wonderment to many of my countrymen, I will admit. Very few people wish to impede the happiness of a man as kind and generous as His Grace the duke. We hope you have not taken a dislike to him.”_

_“I do not know the man. I have no personal feelings for him.”_

_“But you did impede his marrying the princess.”_

_“I did not impede the marriage,” he says certainly. “I provided an alternative option.”_

_“Semantic distinction acknowledged, dear sir. But we cannot imagine why it was wanted, really. Horuel is an interesting country — Her Royal Highness would never have been bored. And His Grace is an interesting man. It might have been a happy match. You have scuttled it, unprompted, with very little information at hand. That seems so out of character for a man who is known to be very careful.”_

_The chief of staff looks Garou up and down for a moment or two. “How did you know who I was?”_

_Garou grins. “Oh, everyone knows who you are—“_

_“They do not know who I am. I am no one. A functionary in the court of His Majesty,” the chief of staff says. “No one knows who I am because I am irrelevant in nearly every regard. So how did you know to whom you should address yourself? Did they tell you my name? That I would be so tall, so many pounds, of this coloring?”_

_Garou watches him like a cat watching a circling fish. His lips are quirked up. “They may have mentioned a thing or two of that kind.”_

_“They told you to look for the three-legged man, I am sure. What else do they know about me? Did they tell you that I am empty as an urn? Did they mention that I care for nothing in this world except my country? Or that you would be wasting your time if you try to intimidate me, because you can take nothing I am afraid of losing?”_

_“Some of that, yes, they told me as well.”_

_“And with that knowledge you were able to identify me enough to accost me.”_

_“I hardly think I am accosting you, dear sir—”_

_“Semantic distinction acknowledged. My point is, if you were able to use gossip to find your way taking action as if everything you heard were the solemn truth — why would you be surprised that others may take their own actions based on what they hear of the things your master does in Horuel?”_

_Garou’s smile widens, widens._

_“How interesting you prove to be, architect!” Garou laughs. “Much more interesting than I anticipated. I should love to see you in my home country. Do you know what we do with cripples in Horuel?”_

_The words make a cold spot grow in the pit of his stomach, but the chief of staff just gives him a slow, unmoved blink. “I have not the pleasure of being familiar with your customs on the subject. Would you like to tell me?”_

_Garou rises smoothly from the table and bows to him. “Oh, I would not spoil the surprise, in the sincere hope that you will someday have the very educational experience of learning for yourself. Excuse me for a moment, won’t you?”_

_“But of course. So nice to have met you, Mr. Garou. I am always pleased to make new friends.”_

_The chief of staff watches the man walk away. Well. Horuel. Not done with them just yet, it seems._

_He’ll tell His Majesty about it a little later, just to be on the safe side. But of course this shall all come to nothing. Perhaps they should have expected a few harmless menacing overtures, but it’s not as if Albertina’s wealthy or influential enough to start a diplomatic incident over her choice of spouse._

_These amateurish scare-tactics, though. He knows it’s too much to hope that they’ll start showing a little creativity one of these days, but surely they could do better than this._

_Oh well._


	8. Two Sides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two perspectives on a conversation. 1,701 words each.

“All right, who died and why don’t you want me to attend their funeral?”

The chief of staff pauses his eyes in their progress across the lines on the page, and in the silence his monarch’s words had put into his mind, a soft, internal ‘damn’ reverberates.

They are sitting in the king’s private study, alone. Everyone else has retired for the evening, but during the last days of the parliamentary session, the chief of staff kept a small room in the office wing. His trip to bed is short, so he stays late.

“Excuse my confusion, sire,” the chief of staff demurs. “But I do not--”

“Bah,” the king intones. “You look deathly. What is the matter?”

The chief of staff sits still for a moment or two. “A small point of domestic alteration. Please forgive my inattention.”

“Ah? Your mother, perhaps?”

“My mother has been dead for 30 years, sire.”

“You see! I knew you’d been hiding funerals from me.”

Against his best instincts, the chief of staff cracks a grim smile. “Only to save you from tears, my liege. I know how tender your heart is.”

The king wads up a paper ball and chucks it at his advisor’s head; the chief of staff catches it. “What  _is_  the matter?”

Was it obvious? The idea that the rest of the staff might’ve seen his melancholy, might’ve guessed its root, makes his stomach bunch in a hot ball.

“I will answer, if you command it,” the chief of staff says solemnly, “but it truly is a trifle and unworthy of your attention.”

“I daresay that anything that makes your mouth so long is of critical interest to the broader well-being of the kingdom,” the king tells him. Rather more gruffly, he adds, “If you were ever to shed one tear, it’s probable the entire East Wing would instantaneously fall to rubble.”

The chief of staff flexes his cheeks humorlessly. “I cry every Founder’s Day, sire. When they play the anthem.”

“If this is something bad enough to put you to functioning at partial capacity, I need to know about it so I can find six or eight men to replace the lost brainpower.”

“Sire, truly--”

"Please. Tell me.” It’s over. Of course it’s over. “What is troubling you?”

The chief of staff puts down the paper, long neglected, and settles both hands on his cane. He lowers his eyes to the flagstones beneath the table. 

“A romantic assignation concluded suddenly this morning.”

“Oh.” At last, the king looks uncomfortable. “I... you know, I didn’t realize that you’d been seeing someone. Er, happens to the best of us, old man. Surely it’s nothing to be embarrassed about so many hours later...?”

The chief of staff's head darts up, surprised. “No. Pardon me, I am not communicating clearly, possibly because of the agony of having so awkward a conversation with you, sire.” The king grins. “Concluded permanently. I am, in fact, not seeing anyone at all.”

“Ah,” the king says, face falling again. “Was it a strong bond?”

“No. A month or six weeks, perhaps, and our schedules only permitted us to meet a handful of times. It had not become serious enough to mention to you, sire, or anyone else, although I’m sure someone in these corridors must know about it.”

“Well, then. Not too much wasted time, which is a blessing. And you’re a gentleman, sure enough, so I’m sure you needn’t feel bad about your conduct. I’m sure you let her down gently.”

“I didn’t--” he begins, but catches himself. Of all the conversations he is unprepared to have today, explaining to his evidently-oblivious monarch that he preferred the company of men was easily in the top five.

The king squirms. “Ah, I see. Then, ah... condolences, certainly, but if she’s foolish enough to send you packing, she can’t have been worthy of you in the first place.”

He has been misinterpreted, but His Majesty is not wrong in his assumption about who initiated the end. He’d been let down gently enough, for what it was; he can accuse the other member of the assignation of no unkindness. (All of the words he can think of to name a thing that ended before it began are much too dramatic, too painful, to use for something that makes him feel more chagrin than anything else. But to be unable to name the thing prickles at him, scratching the inside of his head.)

“I think the fault was mine,” the chief of staff says quietly. “I was negligent. Insufficiently attentive.”

“Well, what in God’s name do people expect?” the king asks, annoyed on his behalf. “A deluge of passion and romance at the twitch of their little finger? You’re running the bloody country! Or at least all the bits of it that I don’t want to have to deal with.”

Yes, he is busy, but of course it wasn’t business that was the tripping point. It was the space between the chief of staff and anyone who dared to get closer than a handshake. It surrounded him all day and slept on the other side of the bed at night. Every dinner table he shared with his lover had to be set for three. If there had been a gulf between him and his prospective partner, that could be overcome -- plenty of people had reached out across the abyss of loneliness to find one another. But the space around the chief of staff was like a cocoon, so much more intimately wrapped around him than any wall, and what was worse he had no ambition to be rid of it. 

All unwillingly, he loves the loneliness his shell had trapped him in better than he loved the companionship of any other person. It would be ridiculous to expect someone to try to love him, when he kissed phantom lips oftener and more happily than their own.

He’d have been wiser to jump straight into bed with the man, all the same. He’d been shy about the slow-fading discoloration in his thigh and he regrets his pointless vanity now. It would have been casual and ice-cold, but nice dinners and warm candlelight didn’t leave him with anything he could hold onto. If they’d fucked, he’d have had a moment’s peace to show for his time.

He is, he thinks, really a rather nasty little man.

The chief of staff holds his cane and his peace.

“I shouldn’t imagine a little sympathy and patience should be so much to ask, when one thinks of how much you do,” the king adds. “Would... There’s nearly nothing we can do straight-off. You’ve made yourself far, far too essential for that. But if you would be more at liberty with a few of your responsibilities shifted...”

He swallows. “Oh, no, sire. As you say, we were not suited to one another in any permanent capacity. It is truly a trifle, Your Majesty, and nothing that would ever cause me to wish to change the parameters of my position.”

“But in the future--”

He interrupts his king. “I cannot imagine a relationship that would be sufficiently important to me that I would wish to change anything about my role in your service, sire. I am quite certain such a thing would never exist.”

The king draws a long, slow breath, looking him up and down with a thoughtful little divot beginning to appear just beyond his left eyebrow. 

“You give up too much for too little reward,” the king says quietly. “Just these cold walls and a long night talking politics with me. I would like you to have some comfort. Ease, if not happiness.”

The things he doesn’t say. _Don’t take away a thing. Give me more. Give me the perfect excuse never to leave your side. Fill my hours, fill my head with nothing but service to you, for you. Be unreasonable. Take it all._

_Give me leave to ruin my heart for you._

“Ease is not in our natures, sire, neither you nor I,” he murmurs. “And I am very happy. Please don’t think otherwise for a moment. I am.”

It's the truth. Quiet hours like this are better than anything else in his world.  Cold walls, and politics, and this man in the room with him. How could he be foolish enough to pine for a body unknown and already forgotten, when he is surrounded by such treasure? 

“Hogwash.”

The chief of staff huffs before he can stop himself. “Well, help me, then. If you will be my Christian, I will be your Cyrano, and we will find someone to woo together. You will have all the satisfaction of proving my words and wit can earn better love than I have heretofore known, and I will have the satisfaction of your pleasure without having to take time out of your service.”

The king’s eyes blow wide with shock and horrified gallantry. 

“Scoundrel,” he accuses. “Deliberately distorting my intention. After I-your-king have condescended to acknowledge the existence of your flesh and blood— after I have lowered myself so far as to assume you have a heart— to think that you would presume to draw a parallel to _theater_ —”

The chief of staff cannot hide a smile at the roaring, artificial bluster. As the king builds his indignation, he lifts a hand to his mouth and watches the man work himself up, charming, ridiculous, the traces here and there of a childhood as a younger brother shining through the wholehearted plunge into drama and excessive gravitas.

“I am that very scoundrel, at your service, sire,” he laughs. “And if it pleases you to lay aside the dubious question of my heart’s existence, my liege, we should either redirect our attention to the work before us or retreat to bed.”

“ _Shocking_ cheek,” the king intones. “Back to work this instant.”

“So please you, sire.”

He smiles and picks up his papers again. The cocoon can’t catch him in here. He feels no loneliness, because no one else in the world exists but his king.

No rush. His faithful loneliness will be waiting for him when he leaves.

* * *

Rudolph sits back in his seat and puts his most severe, don’t-cock-me-about face on. “All right, who died and why don’t you want me to attend their funeral?”

His chief of staff freezes, caught in the charade of reading a paper he certainly is not reading. Not if he’s going that slow.

The man says, “Excuse my confusion, sire, but I do not--”

“Bah,” he interrupts. “You look deathly. What is the matter?”

“A small point of domestic alteration,” his advisor says, tired and clinical. “Please forgive my inattention.”

“Ah? Your mother, perhaps?”

He has to make the man smile when he gets like this, and as always it works, dour and humorless as his chief of staff pretends his smile is. 

“My mother has been dead for 30 years, sire.”

He thumps a fist on his armchair. “You see! I knew you’d been hiding funerals from me.”

“Only to save you from tears, my liege. I know how tender your heart is.”

Cute. Not nearly cute enough. The man has looked just plain sad all day, and if there is something, some little tenderness or policy recommendation that can put him back on an even keel, he must know it’s his for the taking. He won’t see his closest advisor unhappy.

“What _is_ the matter?”

His advisor sighs. “I will answer, if you command it, but it truly is a trifle and unworthy of your attention.”

For a second, he knows he should leave the man alone. He’s so terribly private that nothing good can come from insistence on a subject he’s reluctant to discuss. But Rudolph’s seen this behavior before, in people too proud to admit to hidden wounds, and it only ever leads to infection. He must perform the lesser unkindness of pushing his advisor where he knows the man cannot run.

“I daresay that anything that makes your mouth so long is of critical interest to the broader well-being of the kingdom. If you were ever to shed one tear, it’s probable the entire East Wing would instantaneously fall to rubble.”

Hell, the country might crack in half. What it would take to drag a tear from those cold, sharp eyes, he doesn’t want to begin to imagine.

“I cry every Founder’s Day, sire. When they play the anthem.”

Fine. Cloak it in work, then. “If this is something bad enough to put you to functioning at partial capacity, I need to know about it so I can find six or eight men to replace the lost brainpower.”

“Sire, truly--”

He doesn’t want to do this, except for how he sort of does. He knows exactly what to do: pitch his voice a little lower, a little more earnestly, and ask. His advisor will always answer. Accustomed to fine and rare things as he is, how can Rudolph not relish the plain-spoken honesty he can have at a moment’s notice, falling from the lips of a man who lives with a thousand lies-of-omission and obfuscations on the tip of his tongue?

The infamous serpent of the senate hisses only truth in his ears. What king could resist that?

”Please,” Rudolph says. Low. Earnest. _Let me in. Let me see._ “Tell me. What is troubling you?”

He doesn’t like the resignation that shutters the man’s already minimal expression, but it’s too late now.

“A romantic assignation concluded suddenly this morning.”

Oh.

“Oh. I…”

His gut had been right. He’s not wanted here.

(His blood sparkles. That this man can bring himself to speak of such a thing, just because he asked…)

“You know, I didn’t realize that you’d been seeing someone. Er, happens to the best of us, old man. Surely it’s nothing to be embarrassed about so many hours later...?”

His chief of staff’s dark eyes dart up. ”No. Pardon me, I am not communicating clearly, possibly because of the agony of having so awkward a conversation with you, sire. Concluded permanently. I am, in fact, not seeing anyone at all.”

“Ah. Was it a strong bond?”

“No.” His chief of staff slowly turns the cane in his hands. “A month or six weeks, perhaps, and our schedules only permitted us to meet a handful of times. It had not become serious enough to mention to you, sire, or anyone else, although I’m sure someone in these corridors must know about it.”

Good. He should know these things when they become serious. All the privacy in the world to woo, but when something becomes important to his man, he wants to know.

“Well, then. Not too much wasted time, which is a blessing. And you’re a gentleman, sure enough, so I’m sure you needn’t feel bad about your conduct. I’m sure you let her down gently.”

“I didn’t—”

A thin red flush of mortification rises into his advisor’s cheeks. Rudolph’s cheeks heat for his sake. He should not have _pressed_ , damn his pride. None of this is anything he needed to know; all of the sad, foolish details were better kept by his man alone.

Although what idiot woman could have a man like this in the palm of her hand and give him the chuck, he hopes never to meet.

“Ah, I see. Then, ah... condolences, certainly, but if she’s foolish enough to send you packing, she can’t have been worthy of you in the first place.”

This makes the misery grow in his man’s expression. (How can anyone have thought he was so impassive and unreadable? He’s as clear as the light of the sun, if only one knows how to look.)

“I think the fault was mine,” his advisor murmurs. “I was negligent. Insufficiently attentive.”

“Well, what in God’s name do people expect? A deluge of passion and romance at the twitch of their little finger? You’re running the bloody country! Or at least all the bits of it that I don’t want to have to deal with.”

After everything this man does and endures to keep the place running like clockwork, after the sneers from senators and condescension from lords, after the ink-stained fingertips and the dark hollows around his worried eyes — how can anyone think to give him anything except more patience, more attention, more care?

What possessed him to pursue so thoughtless a partner? Leave it to the smartest and most methodical man in the kingdom to go all to pieces in love. If only he was as clear and strategic in his assignations as he is in everything else, he’d have arranged his own perfect political marriage by now.

_Mature Machiavellian seeks similar for scheming, intrigue; maybe more. Senate staff past or present need not apply._

He deserves better than that, though. He does.

“I shouldn’t imagine a little sympathy and patience should be so much to ask, when one thinks of how much you do. Would… There’s nearly nothing we can do straight-off. You’ve made yourself far, far too essential for that. But if you would be more at liberty with a few of your responsibilities shifted…”

His chief of staff shakes his head. “Oh, no, sire. As you say, we were not suited to one another in any permanent capacity. It is truly a trifle, Your Majesty, and nothing that would ever cause me to wish to change the parameters of my position.”

“But in the future—”

“I cannot imagine a relationship that would be sufficiently important to me that I would wish to change anything about my role in your service, sire. I am quite certain such a thing would never exist.”

The finality of it rings like a gong. It hits the king in the chest and makes a small corner of him crumple.

He is not stern when he speaks, but he wants to sound like the absolute shall-not. His man deserves _so much better_. Can he not see how mean his portion is, compared with what he deserves?

“You give up too much for too little reward. Just these cold walls and a long night talking politics with me. I would like you to have some comfort. Ease, if not happiness.”

His man watches him from inside those deep, dark eyes. When he speaks, it is slow, implacable, and full of lies — but his serpent tells him the truth. How can it be both?

“Ease is not in our natures, sire, neither you nor I. And I am very happy. Please don’t think otherwise for a moment. I am.”

It is such absolute

“Hogwash.”

“Well, help me, then. If you will be my Christian, I will be your Cyrano, and we will find someone to woo together. You will have all the satisfaction of proving my words and wit can earn better love than I have heretofore known, and I will have the satisfaction of your pleasure without having to take time out of your service.”

His heart perks up at the tone. His advisor isn’t lifting him an eyebrow, but he’s not far off.

He knows what to do.

“Scoundrel,” he says. “Deliberately distorting my intention. After I-your-king have condescended to acknowledge the existence of your flesh and blood— after I have lowered myself so far as to assume you have a heart— to think that you would presume to draw a parallel to _theater_ —”

His advisor’s face lights and then creases with mirth, crow’s feet and laugh lines long-underused appearing in delightful places. He grins and covers his mouth.

“I am that very scoundrel, at your service, sire,” his chief of staff laughs. “And if it pleases you to lay aside the dubious question of my heart’s existence, my liege, we should either redirect our attention to the work before us or retreat to bed.”

“ _Shocking_ cheek,” the king intones. “Back to work this instant.”

His advisor bows in his seat and pulls his papers back into his lap. Even as he finds his place again in the document, Rudolph sees the tiny smile on his lips. He glances at it now and then, as the candles get really low — it eases, but it doesn’t disappear, not until it’s time for good night.

That’s a little better, then.


	9. Opening Day

Jules bursts puffing and sweating into the offices of the East Wing. " _Where_?"

Amelius slowly places a fingertip where he stopped in the fourth draft of Tuesday's speech and lifts his head to consider the gasping policy director clinging to his doorjamb like a shipwreck victim. "Noun?"

"Boss!"

"Office."

"No!"

"Senate."

"No!"

"Dead," Amelius concludes, bringing his attention back down to the draft.

"Where is he? I need him right now!"

"Well, obviously you need him right now or you'd not be screaming at me about it. Why do you need him right now?"

Jules brandishes a paper, flapping it like a wing. "'His Majesty the King shall dispense no Offices or Positions within or without the Executive Branch minus a two-thirds majority Approval of the Senate and the House of Lords'!"

Amelius' eyes bug out of his head. "What?"  
  
"In the omnibus!"

" _What_?”

"Title IX, Article 2, Section 9, third paragraph!"

Amelius runs through the possibilities. "Senator Mortense?"

" _Fucking_ Mortense!"

"All right," Amelius says. He picks up a soft cloth ball and throws it at the window dividing his office from the central bull pen. A few pages pick their heads up. "We'll ask the king if he knows where--"  
  
"Amelius!" rings through the hall.

The director of communications sighs. "Etelia, can this wait? We have a semi-minor—”

The king's private secretary comes sliding down the hall and right into Jules. "The king!"

Amelius sighs. "Verb?"

"Missing!"

Technically, that's an adjective, but he'll let it go. "Looks like we're two for two. I'm guessing you need him?"

"Yes! Jules, where is--"

"I don't know! He's gone! I've looked everywhere he ever is and he's not there!"

Amelius tilts his head a little. Both of them gone? Somewhere in the back of his head there's a bell ringing. "What day is it?"

"Friday!"

"No, I mean--"

"Doesn't matter, Amelius! Neither of them just vanish like this, even on Sundays!"

"His Majesty doesn't vanish on me, period!" Etelia cries. "At the very least he promised to take the guards with him! We had a full afternoon planned!"

"No, I really think we need to think about the date," Amelius says slowly, casting about his desk for a calendar.

"Etelia, exactly how likely is it that he's just roughhousing about with Maeve to get away from having to answer more correspondence?" Jules asks, rather more archly than is perfectly kind.

"It is completely unlikely, thank you sincerely, because Maeve is giving a press briefing right now and His Majesty is not training with any of his guards!" Etelia snaps. "And for your information, we were going to prepare for our guests arriving tonight and discuss the dinner we're hosting after Tuesday's address to the senate!"

"I think last week was the final week of March, wasn't it?" Amelius murmurs.

"What? Well, probably! Listen, I've been in meetings all morning -- when was the last time anyone saw either of them?"

"Lunch, I guess. It's nearly four o'clock now."

"It's been three hours since they were last seen? Jules! This is an emer—”

_Shhhhh-- thump._

"...Amelius?"

Groping across his ink blotter, Amelius sends another few mountains of paper landsliding off the plateau of his desk. He fetches out the most recent newspaper and checks the date. He grins.

"Aha!"

"Wha-ha?"

"Found them." Amelius offers them the paper. "Now scoot."

* * *

Etelia shucks back the curtain and lets out a scandalized screech. "Your _Majesty_!"

"Oh, shit," His Majesty mutters, setting down a glass of beer. "Told you we should’ve left a note."

"We were supposed to go over the seating chart!" The wounded accusation in her voice peals through the box seat.

"Listen, I don't—" Jules hip-checks Etelia aside, "—really have time to talk about that. Sir, you need to see Mortense's addition to the omnibus."

"It can't wait?" the chief of staff murmurs, body terrified-tense and leaning forward towards the lip of the box. 

"OM-NI-BUS," Jules bellows. 

There's a _crack_ below and the chief of staff tightens from the core, his whole spine going pin-straight as he follows the path of the ball through a perilous arch, only to see it land gracefully, safely, in the mitt of a catcher some 70 meters away. The chief of staff pumps a fist in time with the king's low groan and slumps comfortably back in his seat. 

Below, the players come jogging off the field. The king picks up his beer again, taking a grim draught, as the chief of staff wiggles his head in a pleased fashion.

"Now, what were you talking about?" the chief of staff croons to Jules.

"Attempts on executive authority!"

"Mm." He holds out his hand and adjusts his glasses as Jules puts the page in his hand and jabs the offending paragraph over and over again with her finger.

"Your Majesty," Etelia says stonily, "we have guests arriving in four hours! We had several meetings planned!"

"It's opening day, bless it! I'm only mortal. We tried to get you out of the office for the whole day so you wouldn't feel your time was wasted."

"Several meetings planned!" She repeats it as one who's already said the most damning thing they can imagine and who can't figure out why it's not making its proper impression.

"I'm sorry, Etelia, but it is Opening Day. Some things are sacred, unlike the bl _oody stupid bastards taking the field!_ " His voice rises to a roar and he shakes his fist at the batter walking up to home plate. 

Etelia pulls a notebook out of one of her millions of vanishing petticoat pockets and unfolds a large piece of paper, already marked with tables and chairs. "Well, fine. We can go over the arrangements right here."

"Oh, God's Christ, not _now_ —"

"There's support for this line in the third paragraph," Jules says to the chief of staff. "Right here. Lots of support, sir. It's hurtling towards crisis. They’re trying to upend the constitution!"

The chief of staff peers down the line of his nose into the paper. "Jules, how long have you been awake?"

"I worked last night, sir, caught a few hours and then came back. It's not relevant. I'll sleep when this is passed. How should we—”

"I would prefer it—” The chief of staff stops short, head snapping around like a pointer dog's to watch the game. 

"Your Majesty, I've proposed a light supper for our guests and I have alerted the footman that he'll have to valet for you this evening, but there are a few talking points I want you to have before the—”

The four syllables sound like four words. " _Etelia._ "

Jules keeps prodding, verging onto the physical, but the chief of staff just lifts a hand to ask her to hold it. He sits still and silent, occasionally slapping her hand away, until the batter strikes out; then, ignoring the king chuckling infernally beside him, he glances up at Jules. He gives her an indulgent look, seamlessly picking up the thread of conversation once more. 

"—if you either took more rest or let Amelius proof things before you bring them to me."

Jules feels her head slowly being engulfed by a hood of cold dread. A new batter walks up to the plate.  
  
"Excuse me?" Jules asks the chief of staff.

"There," the chief of staff says, gesturing loosely to the sentence in the third paragraph. "That says 'should.'"

Jules processes this slowly, doing a double and then a triple take. "Should."

"There's no legal status to 'should,'" the chief of staff says mildly. His eyes are turned away, focused on the game once again. "They've taken an editorial stance. Let them."

Below, the bat lets out a resounding _crack_ and the ball goes sailing upwards, bouncing to the earth between the feet of its would-be catcher. It's a hit. The king groans, hand over his eyes, as the chief of staff puts two fingers in his mouth and lets out a long and appreciative whistle, clapping his hands as the batter legs it.

"You God damn bloody animals," His Majesty grumbles. 

"It was a beautiful hit," the chief of staff replies, shifting in his seat as if it can conceal the way he extends his neck and preens. "Anyone beyond the grip of vile partisanship would admit it."

"Your Majesty—”

"Etelia, I'm going to send you on a beverage run if you don't can it."

Icicles dangle from her voice. "Yes, my lord."

The king grumbles, discontented. "Just have a drink, girl, and try to relax for a few moments, would you? We'll have just as much work to think about when we're done. You can brief me in the carriage."

Etelia is as immovable as a glacier. She crosses her legs and flicks a non-existent speck of dust off of her knee. "My lord." 

On the other side of the box, Jules plops into a seat. 

"Should," she wheezes, knackered. 

"Should very much like to, I imagine," the chief of staff editorializes. He turns his head to give the king a satanic look and speak with a voice gone all cooing and satin-soft. "Why, sire. You don’t seem to be reaching for your billfold. Can I be of assistance in retrieving it for you?"

"Double or nothing, you slavering jackal."

"Very good, sire. Put the paper away, Jules. Enjoy the game. Drink a beer. Make a few bets with the overconfident."

"I can have you killed, you know," the king says. "Just like that. Lop your head off my own self if I want to."

"Technically, sire, anyone can do that. They just may need to face legal repercussions," the chief of staff says, clapping quietly as the next at-bat walks to base. "Oh, yes, at long last. My dear sweet beloved Mr. Cruz the third baseman. We're up to a hundred, sire?"

"Two hundred. He's noodle-armed. I should take your money now."

"Should."

"Please, Jules, hush. You're going to want to watch this man work."


	10. Communication Skills

The senator is still talking. It’s been ten long minutes by Rudolph’s counting, carefully calculated against what he can feel of his own heartbeat in his wrist and the average number of breaths his chief of staff takes in a minute of breathing unconsciously. It can’t keep going, but it looks like it very well might.

The senator was a member of the metal worker’s guild for several years before his jump to politics, and on paper he seems like just the sort of chap the king ought to like. But he’s got a little wormy face and a voice that tends to drone when he starts lecturing. And lecturing is precisely what he’s doing now: pedantic, drifting from the point, apparently incapable of reading the room.   
  
He’s had about enough. The king shifts his whole body, settling more comfortably in his chair and waiting. Across the table the chief of staff stirs in response and turns his head just a bit, seeming to give the senator all of his attention while taking the king a little more out of his peripheral vision.

He closes his fingertips together to shape his hand like a tulip.   
  
The chief of staff scans the room and tilts his head as he contemplates the markless pad of paper before him. He raises his eyebrows without making eye contact with Rudolph, but that flash of neck is all acquiescence. He’s amenable, then, if not precisely begging for it.  
  
Rudolph lays one hand flat on the table, all fingers splayed, and curls the other hand around his elbow, three fingers extended there. Intensity of eight.  
  
The chief of staff frowns a little and tucks his thumb under his left palm. A paltry counter offer, but then again they’ll probably have to work with the berk again soon than they’d like. It might pay to be gentle.  
  
All right. Six, but not a jot less severe.   
  
The chief of staff considers the number and slowly fans one hand open. Five? Not a chance! He wants this to sting enough that this vapid mollycoddle actually thinks before starting this damned foolishness up again.   
He’s about to give his man a scowl when the chief of staff taps his opposite forefinger quietly against the table. He’s curled it at a strange angle from the second knuckle, making it look bent in half.  
  
Oh. Well… all right. Deal. But it'll be a  _strong_ five and a half.  
  
“Going to have to stop you there, senator,” he smiles, swelling over the flow of words with just a slight projection of his already fairly wall-rattling voice. The senator keeps going for a few seconds, although his eyes widen and his volume starts to wither. Was even he listening to what he’d been saying?  
  
Across the table, the chief of staff puts down his pencil and presses the tips of his fingers together, gating them at a sharp angle and lowering them nearly parallel with the table. The sight of it lights a little fire under the king’s chest — the chief of staff only does that when he’s feeling frisky. He’ll be no help to an old colleague from the senate, not with his hands in that position.   
  
“You see, this is actually an issue exclusively under the jurisdiction of my office,” the king sings, “and we’re under no obligation to procure approval from the senate at all. I thought it up because I know it’s a subject of special interest to you, but this really is just a courtesy.”  
  
The senator blinks his watery blue eyes. “But—”  
  
“And if you’re not able to see your way clear to being helpful in the endeavor, I can’t have it on my conscience to waste any more of your time. Our lives are so precious and brief, are they not? Go enjoy yours.”  
  
“But international trade is a subject of legislative jurisdiction—”  
  
“No,” the chief of staff murmurs. It’s all the king can do not to grin like a shark. Here comes the hammer. “Please recall Article II, Section 3, paragraph 5 of the constitution.”  
  
The senator’s eyes go huge. “I don’t—”  
  
His advisor's voice goes smooth and dreamy, reciting a prayer he knows by heart. “‘The Monarch being the foremost diplomat in the land and a true lover of Peace shall be vested with the Authority to negotiate and enforce Treaties to resolve conflicts with Foreign Authorities by and with the Advice of the Senate. He shall prior to enactment notify the Senate as to changes made on this point in Writing and in Disputation before the Assembly.’”  
  
The chief of staff reaches into his coat pocket and produces a miniature copy of the constitution. He opens it for a moment, as if to check himself, nods, and flicks it down the table to let it rest between the senator’s hands.  
  
“Peruse at will and forgive me that I did not bring my larger copy.”  
  
“But it is a trade agreement!”  
  
“No,” the king says, “it’s a truce. We’re in negotiations to stop a conflict at the Mordrovian border and this agreement is the only way to get it done.”  
  
“Conflict?” the senator squawks. “That  _bar brawl_?”  
  
“It was a bare-handed assault between two colonels.”  
  
“They were drunk! It barely merits the name kerfuffle!”  
  
“A military conflict,” the chief of staff says. “Nevertheless.”  
  
“In the loosest possible— You can’t be serious. What is the threat? Will Mordrovia send a battalion of drunken louts to box the ears of a few infantrymen unless we send them a dozen of our finest metalworkers to act as masters for five years in their trade schools?”

Originally the request had been Maeve's hand in marriage, but after all these years of asking that's really become a formality. Nice of the ambassador to help coordinate this little piece of statecraft, all the same.

“Yes, those devils really know how to hit us where it hurts, don’t they?"  
  
“A reduction by a quarter on tariffs for wax and dyes is no one’s idea of a legitimate good faith showing!”  
  
The chief of staff gives him a bloodless little smile. “Except in the eyes of our Mordrovia neighbors. It would be a diplomatic catastrophe to reject their generous offer.”  
  
The senator thumps a hand on the table. “This is a ridiculous overreach! The courts won’t stand for it!”

“Perhaps,” the chief of staff allows. “But until the courts make up their minds whether they will or won’t, we’ll have enjoyed a cozy winter in the light of new candles, wearing rather more richly colored robes."

The senator pops to his feet and begins assembling his folders and papers in a flustered pile. The chief of staff gets to his feet to see him out. 

"I will be bringing news of this appalling power-grab to the attention of the Ethics Committee."

"They know where to find me. Thank you for your time, senator." The chief of staff gives him a little bow and gestures to the constitution at the far end of the table. "Do keep that copy. I have several more.”

He doesn't slam the door open on his way out -- enough presence of mind to not categorically insult the executive branch -- but the look he gives them, even through little wormy eyes, could peel paint.

"I appreciate being notified, Your Majesty," the senator huffs. The chief of staff smiles and catches the door handle.

"Someone will see you to the front," he purrs. The man turns on his heel and shoots into the hall, and the chief of staff guides the door to a quiet closure.

Their eyes meet and the chief of staff haughtily ignores the king's cheesy grin. 

“Your dedication to drama is inspiring! I can't believe you were willing to part with your pocket constitution, when you love it so very much. There are rumors that all that's necessary to seduce you is to skip the sweet nothings and jump straight to murmuring the preamble in your ear.”  
  
The chief of staff gives him a tilted head. “Oh, but those aren’t rumors, sire. Those are cold, hard facts.”  
  
“Very sexy indeed. They also say you have the whole constitution tattooed on your back. Do you?”  
  
“Yes, sire. Your 'they' are remarkably well-informed.”  
  
“Can I see it?”  
  
“No, sire. I am keeping it for my wedding night. I have a mind to ask my new spouse to read it to me as we fall asleep.”  
  
“Mmm. What a delectable notion. I always knew you must be capable of sentiment but I’ll admit I never took you for such a romantic.”  
  
“Thank you, sire." The chief of staff glances at watch on the inside of his wrist. "I’ll show our next meeting in, shall I?”

"That'd be the Ethics Committee?"

"I believe so."

"All right. I'm only giving them five minutes to get to the point. I won't be shilly-shallied while they're trying to accuse me."

"Very good, sire. By every minute they exceed their allotment, you can up the intensity of your rebuke by one point."

"I'm starting at three."

"Noted, sire. Remember that you have an expressive face. Think innocent thoughts." 


	11. Fight Night

They don’t win them all. In fact, they don’t win them most.

Politics has its rainy seasons to go with its droughts. It’s a cycle, ebbing and flowing with the rhythm of elections and public will. Flare-ups in fervor for progress and conservation, protectionism and free trade, fear of neighbors and fear of strangers, each rattle the ecosystem in turn. All they can do is dress for the weather.

And then there are days like these, when months and months of work collapse in a few hours, if not minutes. It doesn’t matter how long they’ve been doing this, how many back-up plans they put in-between themselves and defeat. When they’re knocked on their heels by failure, failure, failure, failure, from the moment the sun is up until it rolls back over the same side of the horizon again, and beyond…

They haven’t had a clear ‘win’ in a long time. Most of what they ever get is a compromise. Today they don’t even get that.

The farm bill has just died on the floor, even with the king himself there to urge the senate to pass it. It had been imperfect, God knew, but he’d been prepared to make concessions and do what it took to get it done.

It’d be a lot easier to endure if he could talk to his chief of staff. But he can’t.

They sit in the carriage with Jules looking close to a nervous breakdown and Etelia looking stoic, rattling back to the palace across the cobblestones. The sun is going down, and the chief of staff is sitting hunched in a corner, staring holes in a piece of paper held up to the window in an attempt to convert the last twinklings of sunlight into legislation. His eyebrows grow closer and closer together with every bump and lurch in the road.

When they step out, Rudolph nabs him by the arm. “Hey.”

The chief of staff lifts his eyebrows but doesn’t quite manage to look surprised. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

“My office, now.”

“Can it possibly wait, Your Majesty? There are a number of contingency plans that I ought to see into motion sooner than later.”

His voice comes out sharp enough to make Etelia’s head jump, eyes huge in her head.

“Honey, if we’re going to have this fight, let’s not do it in front of the senior staff. It just scares the hell out of them.”

His chief of staff is so far gone that his mouth actually twists into a scowl before he can smooth it back down into a thin frown. “Yes, Your Majesty. Jules, while I’m gone—”

“Go home,” Rudolph orders. “Jules, go home. Drink something. Go to bed. You’re in my office at 9 a.m. tomorrow morning and not a second sooner, understand?”

“Yes, my lord,” Jules murmurs, too tired and too humiliated to object. 

“Scoot. Etelia, you too. Vamoose.”

He pulls his chief of staff along down the hall, even as the man tries to break free and walk his accustomed five paces behind. He doesn’t have the patience for that tonight. Instead he pretty well throws the man into the office and shuts the door behind them.

The chief of staff straightens his accoutrement without the least whiff of accusation and begins setting out his papers, twitching them here and there to organize them to his liking. Rudolph could almost imagine it was genuine.

“Well?” Rudolph demands.

A paper shifts. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

“Why don’t you just say it?” Rudolph grumbles.

His advisor’s head snaps up and the man’s whole body bristles. The chief of staff’s voice sounds ever-so silky when he speaks. 

He could beat the man with a bat.

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty?”

“Just get it off your chest, damn you. Whatever it is you want to say, say it so we can move on.”

“I have nothing to—”

“I’m not prepared to play guessing games this evening,” he booms. “Tell me and be done with it!”

His voice bounces back at him off of the stone walls, too loud and too strident. Across the table his advisor clenches his fingers around the head of his cane, turning the stick to grit its foot more firmly between the flagstones.  

“Precisely what is it you wish to hear, my lord?” the chief of staff asks. A sneer is trying to twitch to life between his nose and his mouth. “Would you like me to recap our day? I did not intend to prepare the post-mortem until tomorrow morning, but I can pull something together shortly.”

“Then I’ll say it! In the last day the Ethics Committee has played you like a fiddle and you’ve had your ass handed to you by Mortense and Jules has definitively fucked up the appeals process! Start to finish, it’s been amateur hour!”

The chief of staff takes a long breath in through his nose. A muscle in his jaw flexes out. He goes hard and tight, like a glass whose atoms are about to burst apart.

“And now,” the king says, digging his fingers into the wound, “you’re pissed off at me because I had to step in to put a stop to it!”

The breath explodes out of his advisor’s body and the man turns and strikes like the snake he is.

“You never have to step in!” he snaps. His face is going red. “Never! It’s an insult!”

“Nothing else was going to move the damn needle on the subject in Mortense’s mind and you know it.”

The chief of staff stamps his cane. “He’s a jumped-up little bourgeois pimple and you have no business condescending to listen to him! You dignified him with your attention when he is every moment seeking to undermine the authority of this office!”

Rudolph pulls himself up and back and broad and tall. His voice rises with his rage, whether he wants it to or not, and now he wants it. He means it to feel like intimidation, like shame, but his bloody-minded chief of staff leans into right it, takes three fast steps closer and puts himself squarely in the gale. Daring him.

“My intervention was the only way to get him to sign your ultimatum!” the king roars.

“Then God damn him and let him rot in hell for putting his county over the good of the nation!” The chief of staff’s dark eyes are fever-bright and his mouth contorts into a snarl that bares his teeth. “I don’t need his signature! I am not offering the perfect drenched in the blood of the good! This isn’t even a compromise — the bill is their bill, in all but name! If they want more they can come and take it!”

He lets out a rough laugh. His blood runs too hot, pounding in the face of defiance from a man most specifically under his command. “So this is the legislative process, is it? Your way or nothing?”

The chief of staff whips out a hand, pointing in the direction of the senate. “It is  _their_  way! We have given them everything they asked for! They are the ones to renege on the deal! And now they’re validated by your attention! What were you thinking?”

“Watch what you say, hellhound,” Rudolph intones. He leans forward. So does the snake. How hideously easy it would be to put this man in his place. One push and he’d be on the floor with a crash; that dodgy leg wouldn’t stand a chance. “I am your king. I go where I—”

“You do not!” his man snaps, striding forward again and getting straight up into Rudolph’s bubble. He’s hot, a long line of rigid muscle goading Rudolph to try and go through him. “You are everyone’s king! When you stand, no one sits! You do not go to bargain with your own subjects! He comes to you on his belly or not at all!”

“And who would bring him there, hey?  _You_? If you were on fire he wouldn’t piss on you to put you out.”

“Anyone would have been preferable to you! There was no reason for you to go! The amount of influence you cost the staff, cost me — no one will think I am your mouthpiece now!”

The king waves a hand, sneering. “Nor do you deserve to be.”

For a second the chief of staff’s face falls, cut to the quick. His voice is softer when he speaks, but it rises again with a ringing note of accusation. “Yes, you’ve made that abundantly clear. You have given me a public vote of no confidence!”

Rudolph’s hands clench. A hazy part outside of the confrontation notes his rage, how much angrier he is than the situation really merits. It’s something in the sight of his advisor all flashing dark eyes and red cheeks and snapping mouth; the fascination of a docile creature showing itself to still be wild, cool and calm turning sharp and hot and biting back. Rudolph wants to grab him and shove him up against the wall — what he’d do with him once there he hardly knows, but it would involve pinning him and paying him back this fury sizzling in every joint of his body.

“Ungrateful dog!” the king spits. “I spent half the day defending your miserable honor to anyone who would listen! If you could hear the things those filthy buggers say about you…!”

The chief of staff crosses the last bit of distance and prods him in the chest with a finger. Rudolph’s hands curl into fists to stop himself from reaching out and seizing him by the hair.

“They don’t humiliate me — you do! You thought I couldn’t do my job and you made sure everyone else knew it. You went down to the senate in front of God and everyone to debase yourself to do myjob!”

“I did no such thing—”

“And you did it badly! Your actions killed the bill just as much as mine. We looked weak and disorganized. If we hadn’t failed before, we lost the moment they saw you!”

They stand silent then, eyes locked, a cold charge crackling in the air between them. The quiet is even worse than the shouting. Rudolph itches for his riding crop, a musket, anything that will bark and snap the air and make noise. Nearly pressed to his chest, his chief of staff stands like a shard of glass, rough and jagged and heartless as a stone. Rudolph can almost feel the man’s clothing beneath his hands, gripped tight to warm skin, firm flesh shifting over bone as he seizes the man by the arms and just…

Who knows. Shakes him, maybe.

The chief of staff drops his eyes first. He cringes as if in pain and presses his thumb and his forefinger into his eyes. When he sighs, his breath comes out like a gust pushing over a sand dune, blistering and implacable.

“Do you trust my judgement?” his chief of staff asks.

“No,” he declares. “Not on this.”

Rudolph can see it go into his advisor like a knife sliding between his ribs; he half expects to see it leave a hole in the man’s belly. When his man looks at him, he has to pretend not to see the hurt right on the surface of his eyes.

“May I ask why not?”

“Because your method is reckless and you’re failing at what you set out to do,” Rudolph says. “When your judgement is intact, you don’t fail. You want this far too badly for what little it is and you’re willing to be sloppy if it means you’ll get it. But you won’t. And I want it stopped.”

The chief of staff sets both hands on top of his cane. “Your Majesty, you asked me to pass this bill. I—”

“You can’t. And it’s fine if you can’t. We’ll try again another time, but that can’t happen if you burn out everything you’ve got in a long-shot bid at a shitty agreement. Now, drop it.”

He’s half-expecting another volley of argument. At least the man will glare. The chief of staff was a soldier, which means he is not naturally obedient. He had to be broken like a wild horse and taught to yield. After all these years Rudolph has no confidence in whoever his commanding officer was. To watch the man stand up, lean in, snarl and hiss and dare the sovereign king of his nation, no one would confuse him for anything broken to obedience.

It makes it all the more miraculous, then, to watch the slow, slow seconds it takes for the chief of staff’s shoulders to sink down his back. A crack or two begins to show in his hard expression, as he chips away at his own obstinance from the inside, and then it collapses like ice falling from the side of a cliff, revealing beneath a world of exhaustion and hurt and frustration and embarrassment, every emotion briefly shown clear as he files them away inside and locks the door behind them.

The man yields like a city surrendering in a siege. Like any king at all worthy of a crown, he finds it to be a twisted treasure, the thrill in knowing this surrender is his to own entangled with a poignant remorse that so proud a bastion ever fell at all. Rudolph suspects the dominating power of his own will had very little to do with it, but that hardly matters. The further proof that this unyielding man chooses obedience to him, obedience he may command at a word, is plenty to make his skin hum.

It’s not happening because he’s the king. Anyone might be king, and if he were a tyrant, or simply bad for the country, this sharp-mouthed snake would take him down without wasting a heartbeat. He is not this man’s king because his brother passed him down a scepter, but because one quiet day after his coronation his advisor must have taken him into the privacy of his thoughts, reviewed his merits and faults, and crowned him with his own hands. That is the only way anyone could become king to a man like this.

It’s the only reason the man yields now. Flushed with heat and feeling cruel and glorious, for a moment Rudolph considers how absolutely insupportable it would be to ever let anyone else see him like this.

Rudolph’s fingers itch again to take handfuls of his advisor’s clothes. He needs to hold the man’s shoulder or his arm, press on him a physical stamp to seal this between them. But he’s just finished dominating the man and dressing him down. The last thing his chief of staff would welcome is his touch.

When his man speaks, it’s with air that he seems to have pulled up from the very root of his body.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

‘Thank you’ is on the tip of his tongue. He swallows it down and grunts instead.

The chief of staff takes two steps back and at that distance his eyes look as dead as charcoal. He’s rebuilding the ice as quick as he can, more than ready to cover over his face once more. Rudolph’s got to let him do it but the urge to shake him just isn’t fading.

“Is there anything else in which I may be of service?” the chief of staff asks. 

They’re just still angry, Rudolph tells himself and his burning hands. Let them both go to sleep and the tension will be gone in the morning. He’s already backed down — any more pushing and they’ll start saying things they regret. The best possible remedy is to throw the man out and try to go to bed himself.  

“No, not unless you’re prepared to yell and scream some more about my blundering in where I’m not wanted. I can make some time for that.”

“I am not prepared to yell, my lord,” his advisor murmurs. “Perhaps a memo to your office in the morning will suffice.”

“Get it in Etelia’s hands first thing and we’ll draft the rebuttal. For now, just go home, would you?”

The chief of staff bows, just exactly like a man being knighted or putting his neck to the sword. He straightens up.

“Thank you, Your Majesty. I bid you a good night.”

“Yes, good night, good bye, get out, for God’s sake.”

The chief of staff makes it all the way to the door before he pauses. “Your Majesty…”

“Oh, what now?”

“…whether I deserve it or not, there are moments when I need to serve as your mouthpiece.”

Rudolph feels himself blanche. “Oh. Christ. I—”

The chief of staff lets a hand pass through the air. Rudolph lets it wave him to silence.

“If there are ways I can improve my performance in that capacity, I would be grateful to learn. Perhaps we could review my previous attempts in the morning, and you could speak to changes you wish to see made?”

How graceful. How damnably obliging. How his man didn’t strike him... 

“You’re fine, old man, of course. Listen... they can’t think I’ve ever had a moment’s doubt about you. Ever. Especially not after the way I shouted them down for talking shit.”

The chief of staff looks at him. 

Rudolph scowls at him, heat rising again under his collar and cuffs and in the pit of his stomach. “Damn it. Speak up!”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

His hands itch. Grab him. Pin him. Seize him by the face and make him understand.

“Would you just call me ‘sire,’ you battle-axe?”

Their eyes are locked. His man doesn’t smile. He must still be angry and Rudolph doesn’t blame him if he is. Nothing is ever resolved, really. They just jump to the next thing.

“So please you, sire.”

He shouldn’t have asked for it. It doesn’t sound right, spoken like that. Spoken like it’s cold.

It will be better tomorrow. The tension will be gone tomorrow.

“I’ll see you in the morning. First thing,” Rudolph says. “Now, out.”

He makes himself turn to face the fire, leaving his back bared to those dark eyes raking over him. The itch in his hands grows to something almost painful and the air in the room narrows to a thin and sharpish thread.

“Good night, sire,” his man says.

He opens and closes the door so quietly that it takes long, long moments for Rudolph to decide he’s really gone. His shoulders slump and his face goes slack, but deep inside a spring winds tighter, and tighter, and tighter.


	12. Word Play

When a cabinet meeting starts to ramble on, Maeve and Amelius tend to revert to their lesser instincts. It takes a careful eye and steady hands to send a paper football winging across the table when no one’s looking, but they’ve had enough practice that they know where to sit so the open window gives them just enough draft to put a tighter spin on the projectile. 

The king is listening with ever-lowering eyebrows to one of the chief of naval operations. At his left hand, Etelia scribbles notes, untrusting of the secretary taking the minutes on the other side of the table. A few chairs further, the chief of staff stares down the chief of naval operations over the rim of his glasses.

Amelius puffs on his pipe and feels something small thump into his lap. Maeve’s massive is a neatly-folded triangle of yellow scrap paper; Maeve herself sits on the opposite side of the table, cheek in hand and lips wrapped around a toothpick waving like an anemone’s tentacle. 

Amelius unfolds the paper.

_Femdom: Wanting to be sexually dominated by a female. Wisdom: Wanting to be sexually dominated by a wizard._

It checks out. Amelius hollows his cheeks and lifts his chin, day-dreamily scanning the rest of the room. He picks up a quill.

_Fiefdom: Wanting to be sexually dominated by a flute. Seldom: Wanting to be sexually dominated by a good or service._

He folds it over again, not quite as neatly as hers, and waits for his moment. When it comes, Maeve startles and swats the air. 

The king and the chief of staff both flick their eyes over to her. The chief of naval operations slows and stops.

“Anybody allergic to bees?” she asks. Silence. “Because I think a bee came in the room.”

“Would you please close the window?” the chief of staff asks the speaker of the House of Lords. The window shuts.

“You were saying, Admiral?” the king prompts.

“He was done saying, I suspect,” the speaker of the Senate grumbles. “Admiral, we take your point: the far eastern base is in a vulnerable position. It has been for 90 years – that’s the nature of having a port within five leagues of Mordrovia. Is there anything that can actually be done about it now, or is this just laying the groundwork for more military funding down the line?”

Amelius puffs two or three times and only looks at Maeve from the tail of his eye. She reads the note with her teeth biting into the inside of her cheek and instantly scribbles a reply. The football hits his lap a minute later.

Etelia’s head shoots up. “What was that?”

“Bees,” Maeve says. Amelius puffs. 

_Condom: Wanting to be sexually dominated by a pyramid scheme. Boredom: Wanting to be sexually dominated by a large drill._

That last one is quite real, at least in the euphemistic sense. Amelius drums his fingers. He’d wanted to use ‘boredom.’ 

 _Martyrdom,_ he writes, and wings it back across the room. This time the chief of staff catches him mid-flick. Amelius stuffs his hands down in his lap, but the damage is done and they’re caught. 

The chief of staff eventually looks away, and Amelius glances at Maeve. She looks at him with a broad grin and mouths, ‘Gross!’

“Very well,” the king intones, down at the head of the table. “Your objections to the tax code are noted, Lord Deladroit. Is that all?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”  
  
“Good.” The king rises to his feet and the room stands with him. “Out with you. See you next week if I’m lucky.”

The visitors decamp, Lord Deladroit giving the speaker of the Senate a dirty look on the way, until just the senior staff are left.

“They don’t love your budget, old man,” the king says. 

“How surprising. Technically Jules, the speaker of the Senate, and I all share joint custody.”

“That’s terribly modern of you all. In any event, they legislative bodies appear to frown on your sweet child. What’s the back-up?”

“There are three contingencies to explore, sire. All of them feasible. But on my life, it doesn’t seem like all that complicated an issue. All that have to do is pass a bill that’s good for people. They don’t even need to think about which people in particular.”

“Very easy to talk, I’m afraid…”

Amelius blinks. He’s just come up with something good for “Sodom,” like it needs it, and he gestures at Maeve to chuck him back the football. He’s almost not even listening anymore.

“All I want, from the bottom of my heart,” the chief of staff sighs, “is a happy, healthy kingdom.”

Amelius is smoking the small pipe today, so despite a sharp burning sensation it’s only a moment’s discomfort to get it pulled back out of his mouth. His throat is too sore to even try and explain Maeve’s shriek, but he’s pretty certain that her scream and his attempted inhalation of a foreign object coincide enough to explain one another nicely. 

He burns the note promptly thereafter.


	13. Reassured

“Such a charming man,” the magna ducissa smiles.

The sun is going down, but it’s still too hot to talk. Rudolph barely stirs from the puddle he’s melted into. “Mm?”

“Your wonderful advisor,” she says.

Her Grace Rosaria Guerredian di Velancia, the magna ducissa and Albertina’s imminent bride to be, waves a hand across the courtyard at three shadowy shapes. Jules, Etelia, and the chief of staff sit in consultation, heads bowed together. Working, Devil take them, when they should be relaxing in the cooling evening air.

Rudolph and Rosaria are sitting at the western side of the courtyard, perched on beautiful inlaid chairs with silk cushions. The arcaded marble sides of the yard offer dense patches of shade in the sunshine, but no amount of cool shadow can really make one forget the heat of the day. Velancia is a hot country, and though Rudolph finds it almost enough to derange him when the sun is at its highest point, at least it’s dry, and the nights are delicious. Now the sun has finally gone down and in relief the jasmine sambac in the garden gasps out its intoxicating fragrance. The braziers under the arcaded sides of the courtyard gleam on the sweet water splashing in the central fountain. Like the rest of the palace, the courtyard’s architecture is beautiful, full of smooth and unforgiving marble and delicately crenelated arches.

Tomorrow, in the broad heat of day, they’re going to go falconing with Albertina. Bertie loves Velancia, the dry heat and the scorching sun and the way her fiancée’s eyes light with appreciation when she walks around in breeches, recalling joyfully the proper procedure for hunting boar.

For now, they sit near the cool marble and wait for the night to close more perfectly around them.

“He is charming,” Rudolph agrees. “Once you know him.”

“All his little jokes.” Rosaria shakes her head. “So mean. I should have known he would be.”

“How did you two ever…?”

“He was the only one out of the pool I sent letters to that responded about my god-daughter. Everyone else had these long notes written by clerks, but his… He was too low to have clerks then, I suppose. Handwritten scrap, same as his signature. All he said was ‘With pleasure,’ and there address of the bursar and a copy of his letter of introduction, as well as a copy of the first stage of correspondence forged in my hand, already sent ahead to the royal university.”

Rudolph lets out a soft laugh. Too hot to boom with laughter. Too hot to feel more than a low burn of deep pride.

Rosaria smiles. “I sent him a thank-you and he never replied. Busy, then, perhaps. I never thought to hear from him again, but now look… me and my wonderful new bride. I will send him another thank-you he will forget, but so it goes.”

“If you want to see him more, you’ll have to do something drastic. Why not adopt him? You could make him a minor baronet or something. I’ll have to keep him year-round, of course, but you can have three or four weeks of his attention span every year.”

“He’d make an awful baronet,” Rosaria muses. “No sense of complacency. I’ll offer to knight him, how about that? For prowess in hunting. I’m only surprised he’s not been knighted before now.”

The little lilt of accusation in her voice comes through loud and clear. He huffs.

“Don’t bother offering him anything,” Rudolph says. “Doesn’t matter what it is, he’ll only turn it down. He’s a stubborn old sinner and you’ll have to force compensation on him if you want to reward him. Better to land him first and let him rail against you after the fact.”

Beside him, Rosaria hums.

For a few moments they sit quietly. Above them, the gathering dark is rolling towards them, indigo just beginning to reach for the spires of the palace. In this place night comes creeping in slowly and settles heavily, blue and cold.

“Then he is not modest,” Rosaria says quietly. “A strange way to be servile, but if it’s what he wants…”

“Hm?”

“How he described his role to me. Minor. Minimal. A cog in a machine. I thought he oughtn’t call himself a functionary if he didn’t want to be treated like one, but if that truly is how he’d like to be treated, I suppose I will have to oblige him.”

She shakes her head again. “Though how he expects to complete any drudge work he’s given while in that chair, I can’t imagine. I think I will ignore his protestations, instead.”

It turns out that it’s not too hot for his temper. A second sun rises and lodges itself right in his belly.

“God damn it,” Rudolph growls. “I’m going to kill him.”

* * *

His man’s prowess in hunting does not extend to prowess in running away. Later in the evening, Rudolph finds him exactly where he’d expect to find him: sitting in a snowdrift of paper at the writing table in the master suite Rosaria assigned for him. The kids are just across the hall, in a slightly less opulent set of rooms. Rudolph pleased with the arrangement the moment he saw it. Belaria it ain’t.

“There you are,” he rumbles from the doorway.

The chief of staff glances up and lowers his head in a bow. “Here I am, sire. Good evening.”

He walks in to find his man’s got a fire lit. He’s seen how much more comfortable his man is in this blazing weather, but the nights are still cold.

At the first flush of warmth from the fire, Rudolph scowls and pulls at the neck of his shirts, loosening them and undoing the ties. There.

“Been chatting with Roz,” he says, taking a seat on the sofa so he can watch his man work. “She’s a good sort. I think she’ll make Bertie happy.”

The chief of staff seems to stifle a smile, probably at the nickname. From the sound of it, Rosaria has been pushing him to call her by her given name, but she’s got a tough road to hoe. With a sword at his throat, his man might consent to call her ‘my lady.’

“I am glad to hear it,” he says, lifting a few pages of correspondence to bring them closer. “I am inclined to agree.”

“Asked me questions about what Bertie likes. She’s very right to want to court her even after they marry. Makes all the difference in the world, I should think, if you can manage to be in love as well as be married to someone.”

“As you please, sire.”

“You don’t agree?”

His man lets an eyebrow take a skeptical upward tilt. “I am never a proponent for letting the perfect be the enemy of the good, my liege. To be married is a significant benefit of one kind. To be in love is very much another, if any at all.”

“Tch. Heartless fiend.”

His chief of staff cracks a smile. “Ah, my old university nickname.”

“You see something wrong with being in love, I take it?”

“I certainly do not disapprove, sire. Like any disease it is nonsensical to imagine sufferers would endure it if the condition were preventable,” he says haughtily. One shoulder rolls carelessly. “But I have some hope that it will become less prevalent when the health care bill begins moving again, although little can be done for those afflicted with the chronic form.”

“Ahh. Such sympathy for these unfortunates does you credit, old man. Sure you’re not speaking as the voice of experience?”

The chief of staff looks him up and down and gives him a guarded smile. “Certainly not. Anyone will tell you that I am immune.”

It’s such a horseshit answer that his first instinct is to turn it around and tease, and the tickling intensity of the urge takes him by surprise. It takes him a moment, but Rudolph soon realizes why. His chief of staff hasn’t been out of his sight for more than a few hours since they left home, and yet he’s  _missed_ him.

He’s missed hearing his chief of staff sound like himself, like what he was before these horrible weeks of panic and worry landed Albertina in Velancia and his man in a wheelchair. He’s missed the teasing, the rampantly insincere cynicism.

God. He’s missed the way the man can look at him. He’s missed their game.

He’d first suggested deception because he wanted to push their visitors off their step as they hunted for fresh weaknesses, but the form of a sexual intrigue only came up because it was such a silly idea. A man like him managing to cause a ripple in the ironclad virtue of the ascetic high priest of policy? Never in life! But that made it so irresistible.

Watching his advisor play the part of not-so-secret lover was a masterclass. Bedroom eyes didn’t even come close; he didn’t even need to look at Rudolph, half the time. The things the man could do with the  _lack_  of a look and a few small, almost-unconscious movements of his fingers would make a lesser man whimper.

And when he did look… Rudolph has had entire sexual encounters that weren’t as fierce as the flash of those hot, dark eyes groping over him. Once or twice he’d had to discreetly adjust himself as he sat at dinner, cheerfully reflecting that he hadn’t taken care of himself in far too long, if this was what a few fiery looks from his friend could do to him.

It had been so much fun, and left him walking on such an updraft of joy, but it had to be nipped in the bud weeks ago. Lately his man has been in no kind of condition to give those looks out again. He’s been hurt and he hurts still, plain as the nose on his face. When Rudolph looks at him, he’s not pleased with what he sees. Behind the glasses, a deeper dark has developed under the chief of staff’s eyes, and beneath his fine cheekbones his cheeks hang sunken from the trauma the fever put him through. His mind is back up to speed, clicking away like some kind of beautiful crystal machine, but his skin is a tired color and his shoulders slump too easily.

Every remarkable feature of his man has become even more stark. His eyes are enormous in his wasted face, dark and fathomless and astonishingly clear. Seen properly, they glitter.

Pain is writ large everywhere on him. If Rudolph cannot ease it, he wants more than anything to take his mind away from it and let him be light, let him play, as sharp and sweet as he wants.

Talking with Rosaria makes him feel like waking up the morning after a hard day’s ride; every soft ache and satisfying twinge so easily ignored the previous night now shot stiff. How can he have ever been so comfortable, when his bones ache to play with his closest and most trusted man. Once they are back, once he is well, they ought to rekindle the game. Any pretext will do.

Across the table, watching him, his chief of staff begins to frown. “Sire?”

“Nothing, old man,” he says gently. He leans back in his seat. “I’d like to see you eat. When was the last time…?”

“Luncheon, sire, and you may confirm with Jules that I ate everything that was put in front of me.”

“Consisting of a wafer cracker, I have no doubt.”

The chief of staff smirks and turns his attention slowly and smoothly to the papers before him. “Pray do not insult Her Grace’s hospitality when there could be spies lurking in the tapestries, my liege. It was a pleasant repast, and I anticipate equally fine treatment at dinner.”

“Hmm.” It was always over dinner that he showed all that lust. All that appearance of desire.

If he is a machine, he is one so rare and strange it is indistinguishable from magic. It was incredible to watch him, knowing that though he looked ready to climb into Rudolph’s lap and eat him alive, behind his eyes his advisor’s crystalline brain was in fact calmly fixed on international economic partnerships or the bloody birthing of educational reform. Where lust should’ve narrowed his attention, the task of implying obscene designs on his king’s body was just another plate for his marvelous brain to keep spinning in the air while he silently and seriously went about the betterment of their country.

His true goal. Always. 

His true love. 

Always.

And he has the temerity to believe himself disposable. A quill, like the one he holds in his hand, or a weight to hold a paper down. Even for one second, he’s been allowed to think he can be tossed aside and forgotten. Replaced, if he breaks.

Well, he can’t. If he breaks, they break.

He’s going to know it.

“Gaspar.”

The chief of staff startles, jabbing the quill down and leaving a small puddle of ink beneath the bent tip. Perhaps that’s only right. He never really uses the man’s name. Never seems to need to.

Gaspar looks up at him, eyes unreadable. “Yes, sire?”

Rudolph says, “I love you, too, you know.”

The air goes very dry. Even the fire hushes.

“Sire?”

“You heard me.”

“I— I don’t know what you mean.”

He snorts. Damn the man. No, he’d never understand that he was valued, cherished; he’d never see it coming.

“Of course not. You’re so deep in denial even your ears are in on the act.”

Gaspar swallows hard and for the first time Rudolph see something like distress in his eyes. It makes his chest ache.

“Sire, I can assure you that I don’t— I mean, I never—”

Oh, Christ. He thinks it’s somehow presumptive.

“It’s all right,” Rudolph says softly. “You’d sooner cut your throat than impose, but I’m telling you that I’d thank you to give it a try. I know you, old man, and I don’t need you to say a word. I just love you, and I’m making sure I tell you so.”

His man’s mouth is hanging open. “Sire…” he breathes, eyes wide.

“Gaspar. Tell me you always knew?”

“I—”

“Please tell me you don’t think you’re a piece of machinery. You’ve… you’re…”

For 15 years Gaspar has been at his side, better than his conscience; his cold and clear-eyed miracle worker. He’s been faithful, and devoted, and dedicated, and brilliant. Daring and wise and foolish and dear. He cannot imagine being made to go a month without the man’s company, let alone one of the long years of his reign. What would he have done without him? What could he have done?

“Listen,” Rudolph says. “You are the dearest friend I have. I—”

_Damn the country. I would be lost without you. Miserable. Blinkered by men more grasping, more ambitious, less principled. You protect the nation and the kids and me more ferociously than anything I’ve ever imagined. You would do anything for me._

_I could wring your little neck for not letting me do anything back. Not even letting me admire you._

“I love you very much,” he finishes. He snorts at himself, at the inadequacy of it all. “Hell, how could I do anything else? You’re the father of my children, aren’t you?”

Something happens. He’s said something wrong.

He sees it in Gaspar’s beautiful eyes first: a kind of shivering, shuttering. His body loses a little tension somewhere, or maybe everywhere. He looks cold.

Rudolph can only watch. It is like watching something that had just begun to grow being crushed down and ground out. He knows the man’s expression had been so warm and soft seconds ago, because now he sees it closed.

“The feeling is entirely mutual, sire,” Gaspar says. “It is the great honor of my life to be considered your friend as well as your servant. Please let me assure you that after so much of your kindness and attention, there could be no ambiguity about my importance to you, personally. I do not harbor any illusions on that point, sire.”

The words are all perfectly correct, perfectly right. Exactly what he might’ve expected. Even hoped for.

How is it that it can be so wrong?

His throat is clogged. It takes him a moment to break free and when he can speak, he speaks slowly.

“Are you sure? I never do seem to be able to read you, old man. You have such a way of putting a plain truth… can’t help but wonder what I’m not seeing.”

“You take my reputation as a snake too literally, sire.”

Rudolph cringes a smile. “Well, when I hear all the twisty ways you trip up the kids with your too-careful command of language, I consider it in my interests to be as cautious as I may be. But we do understand each other?”

“Perfectly, sire.”

His stomach rolls slowly over. This should be right, and it’s entirely wrong. Why? The look in his man’s eyes…

Oh, Christ. Has he said too much?

“Am I right to have said it? I can’t live with it, if I’ve pushed on you something you think you can’t reject on political grounds.” His gorge rises at the thought of his man embarrassed by his affection, or worse: forced to pretend to appreciate it. “You must tell me to go kick rocks, if that’s what you really want to say. Monarch or no.”

His man’s expression eases, just the tiniest little bit. He looks at Rudolph more gently, and it makes his shoulders go slack. “I would vastly prefer it if you did not go kick rocks, sire. It would be more trouble for your valet and I pity the poor boy enough already.”

Rudolph laughs at that, too softly, too warmly. Gaspar squirms in his seat, warring with something too deeply buried to show on his face.

“I do have one request, sire,” he says slowly. “After we return home, I wish to take a sabbatical.”

He feels like the man has thrown a bucket of ice water at his chest. 

“…Oh.”

Gaspar holds his gaze. “It would be very brief in duration, sire. Your physician suggested I take a rest and though I’ve tried to fight it, I find myself inclining to her opinion. I recognize that this is rather short notice, so if it is not possible at present…”

No. No, he can’t bloody well try and walk it back — he deserves all the rest and comfort in the world.

Thank God the man is thinking about his health. Took him bloody long enough! They’ll all find a way to get along without him for however much time he needs. Or wants.

“Well, certainly you deserve a break! Whether for health or for any other reason. I don’t think you’ve ever taken one in all your years of work, so it’s more than due,” he says, loudly and clearly to make sure he hears it just as much as his man does. “What are you thinking in terms of duration?”

“A month, perhaps,” Gaspar says.

Dear Lord. “A month?”

“Or nearly.” He shifts again in the chair. “I can certainly take less, if that is more convenient—”

“No. A month,” Rudolph says. “Two, if you find yourself enjoying the respite! Nothing would make me happier than to see you come back tan and comfortable. It’s the least I owe you, when I’m low enough to drag you all over God’s creation when you should be at home, healing. The very least I owe you.”

“Thank you, sire. I will begin making arrangements with the staff.”

He makes himself smile. A month. “Better tell them sooner than later, yes. Get the kids acclimated so they don’t lose their heads in the first two hours without your supervision.”

Gaspar rolls his head on his neck a bit. “I am sure they will hold it together at least through the first night. I did collect you a staff from the top ranks of their professions, after all.”  

Rudolph takes a deep, deep breath and lets it out as quietly as he can. His eyes crinkle at the corners.

“Only right that you’d take some time,” he repeats, reminding them both. “Much-deserved. I insist on some kind of security detail, that’s all. Otherwise I’ll be worried about you for four weeks straight.”

“I believe next month functionally lasts five calendar weeks, sire,” Gaspar says. His heart seizes and from his man’s expression it must show on his face. “I am perfectly happy to take four—”

“Five or more, you indefatigable nuisance.”

Finally, finally, he’s earned another smile. He drinks it in and wonders with a hollow head how many weeks it will cost him to get the next one. “Very good, sire.”

“Come,” Rudolph says, rising to his feet. “Help me prepare for dinner. You can vet my statements to the Bertie’s uncle to make sure all my snide remarks toe the line on civility.”

“I have never known you to need my input for that, my liege. You have a scalpel wit.”

“Come anyway. I want you.”

Gaspar drops his eyes. He carefully wheels himself back from the desk, pausing for a moment to grab a short stack of envelopes and place it in his lap. “While you are dressing, I will read you a little mail. Interesting movements in the ministry of the public affairs. I strongly suspect they are trying to play games with us.”

Rudolph holds the door open for him, trying to imagine it. Five weeks. How will he stand it?

God. How will Gaspar stand it? He really thinks he can go five weeks without working? He really wants to try?

“Well, well,” Rudolph murmurs. “I’m very glad to hear it. After all, we do love our little games.”


	14. Meet the Parents

There are so many things Cassius Wheelwright likes about his girlfriend. She’s funny, and mysterious, and passionate, and smarter than him. She’s very sexy. She eats like a horse.

Tonight she has diamonds sprinkled in her hair. Her radiant head and red ballgown and easy stride under slips and petticoats makes the hard leather of his new shoes pinch all the more. The warmth of her hand rests against his palm through the slip-slide of red satin and white cotton of their gloves. Waves of yellow light ripple down the shallow marble steps and cut through the mist of night as they work their way up towards the front doors of the castle. People glitter here and there around them, carried along on soft lines of music.

“Sorry about this, baby,” Jules murmurs. “I really wanted to have a little family dinner, but it’s just not going to happen before the end of the session. And you should know them sooner than later.”

Cassius smiles. Jules’ parents were wonderful, when he met them, but she only sees them a few times a year. He has to make an even better impression tonight, because if there’s ever a night she doesn’t come home, it’ll be because of the people in this castle.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been to a state dinner before.”

Jules snorts. “It’s the exact opposite of a big deal. We’ll mill around and try to keep everybody out of the fountain, and we’ll grab dinner in shifts. Then we’ll hang out in the kitchens or the study or wherever we can get a little air. The upside is you’ll get to meet everybody, this way. All hands on deck.”

Hang on. “The fountain?”

“Yup. Always a risk. It has a siren call.” Jules stops to adjust his clothing. She tugs him this way and that, until his cravat is plumped like a mourning dove’s chest and his waistcoat has been snapped hard along the planes of his waist.

She smiles as she smoothes down his lapel and leans in to place a light kiss on his lips. He nuzzles his nose to hers as they part.

“Don’t let Maeve talk you into anything, okay?”

“Okay.” But he doesn’t entirely mean it. It all depends on what Maeve’s going to talk him into. He’s heard the stories and some of them sound fun.

His girlfriend gives him one more big smile and tugs his hand. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to some enemies first. You’ll love them.”

Of course, the very first thing he’s got to do once he’s in the ballroom, under the glittering shards of the chandeliers and the people whose portraits he’s seen in books and on notecards, is find the little plus-one’s room. Directions to the W.C. lead him to deeper into the castle and down a vaulted stone hall of dim sconces flickering on closed doors. One door is cracked open.

He tries not to hear the murmurs, but, well—it’s an immediate urge to find the little plus-one’s room. He needs to know if these are going to be people that can direct him there.

“…don’t pretend you’re not wary of anyone making time with our little girl.”

“She’ll be 40 next month.”

“That’s not too old to catch a broken heart!”

“No one ever is. But we cannot use the machinery of the state to try and preserve ourselves from that unhappiness. At present we have no cause to doubt her judgement. Threats of force are unnecessary to ensure compliance. All he needs to know is that we are aware of him.”

“Not good enough! He makes her drip one blessed tear from those big brown eyes and I’ll see him extradited to the bottom of the polar sea— and he’s going to know it!”

“Is it not a little extreme? We have very serviceable dungeons here, if it comes to it. But I strongly advise that any corrective tactics have as light a touch as possible. They’ll never thank us for scaring off future suitors.”

“Banished. Exiled! If any of them gets their heart broken! And that’s an end of it. Now, help me with this blasted doublet, would you? Why these things are ever laced in the back I can’t begin to imagine…”

Anyway, he finds the toilet shortly thereafter.

* * *

“Hiya, handsome,” Jules says, plucking the shoulder of a stocky, bearded man. “Is this a new coat?”

He tilts Jules a smile. “Maeve kidnapped me and spirited me off to her tailor. She made me wear a blindfold the whole time.”

“And she was right to do so, if this is the result. Cassius, meet Amelius.”

Cassius smiles reflexively, focusing in now that he knows this is Amelius. From Jules’ descriptions of her favorite coworker’s precision and temperamental approach to linguistic excellence, he’d expected someone sharp and energetic, but what he gets is a soft-edged man who’s balding on top and tired-eyed, with something sarcastic in the line of his eyebrows.

Cassius’ shoulders ease at the first clasp of Amelius’ hand. He’s got big dog energy.

“Glad you could make it,” Amelius says to him. He holds up his glass of wine in illustration. “Did you get a drink?”  
  
“Not quite yet.”

“Wise move. Pace yourself.”

Jules’ beautiful head sparkles as she looks around the room. “Is Dad here yet?”

“Not quite. Dressing room folderol, if I’m any judge.”

“I don’t see Himself, either.” Amelius flicks his eyebrows up. Jules wrinkles her nose and flaps a hand at him. “Ugh. Can we drop the bad joke already?”

Amelius drowns a mischievous smile in his wine glass. “What do you do for work, Mr. Wheelwright?”

He smiles and feels it must look a little like a cringe. He’s good at what he does, successful, a business owner. It’s just seeing Jules in diamonds, is all.  

“I’m a baker.”

Amelius blinks. “And Jules suckered you into coming to a state dinner? It’s a hell of a sacrifice, being out late with stuffed shirts if you’ve got early mornings to contend with.”

Cassius’ chest loosens. “One late night won’t hurt me.”

“Let me know if you decide you need a nap. I’ll show you one of my hiding places. Pillows and everything.”

“Etelia!” Jules calls, looking over Cassius’ shoulder. She waves a hand at a woman in violet, about 10 feet away.

Etelia has a heart-shaped face dominated by a pair of huge blue eyes and a thin little pinched-up mouth. She shakes her head and taps a finger on her bare wrist — no time. 

“Come  _over._ I want you to meet my boyfriend.”

Etelia shakes her head again and taps harder. She casts a harried glance this way and that and glides deeper into the crowd, sticking her head out like a little prairie dog every few moments until she’s gone once more.

“C’mon, Tels,” Jules grumbles.

“They’ve got to stop giving her the slip,” Amelius remarks. “It’s getting to be bad for my blood pressure.”

“Well, she does hover.” There’s a certain delicate emphasis on the last syllable. Amelius tilts his head and looks at Jules along the arch of one eyebrow. “Hey! I am not being mean to her. I’m telling it like it is.”

Amelius shrugs. “Has Jules told you very many stories about working in the palace, Cassius?”

“Yes, of course.”

“The thing to remember is that they’re all true. We work with strong personalities. You’re going to meet them, I’m afraid.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Cassius smiles.

“Aww,” Amelius simpers. “Remember the exact time you said that.”

Cassius was the kind of person who slept in on jubilee days. Before Jules plucked him up, he hardly even voted, and infectious though her obsession with all things political is, he still doesn’t pretend to find it a particularly intelligible field. Food science makes much more sense, and he’s glad he’s in it. Bagels don’t damn districts of their own people to penury and ignorance because a member of the opposite party didn’t salute them properly. You won’t find yourself disenfranchised and exploited by a sourdough.

To hear the way Jules has to think when she’s going in for the kill, Cassius feels that the things she knows about crowds of people and why they do what they do are things he never wants to learn. If he never has to see the way the presence of power twists people and makes them abase themselves, it’ll be too soon.

That might be why he feels it as a chill when the hairs on the back of his neck rise in the middle of a perfectly ordinary conversation. He rubs them down, frowning against a faint shudder in his backbone. Nothing has changed. Music from the string quintet lilts around the room, dancing on the heads of these well-bred lords and ladies. These people wouldn’t dream of altering the natural course of their conversations to betray anything as pedestrian as interest, but nevertheless a minuscule vibration has rippled rapidly from the doorway leading to the vaulted stone hall out to where the three of them stand in the crowd.

“There he is,” Jules says, sounding satisfied.

“Who?”

“Dad.”

Cassius exercises a peasant’s privilege and cranes his neck to see.

“Oh, don’t bother,” Jules says. “He’s just stepped in. It’ll be 45 minutes before he manages to get this deep. Better to go to him, if we can.“

"Give him half an hour,” Amelius says, consulting a pocket watch. “He’ll need to be greeted and cosseted by the quality first. Besides, Papà mentioned that he wanted a few minutes with His Majesty distracted.”  

Jules frowns a little. "Why?”

“No reason,” says a gray man, appearing at Jules’ elbow.

Cassius has never seen someone so gray before in his life. His hair is pulled back in a tie at the nape of his neck and a pair of dark eyes peer out under sharp eyebrows. He is thin and smaller than average, with a cane propping him up on the right side, and he’s dressed plainly and in dusty colors. His face looks like it had been made by someone who couldn’t decide if he should be handsome—high cheekbones, brown skin, large eyes—or ugly: gray beard, eyeglasses, a nose too small for his face.

“Yup. Yup. Right. Goodbye,” Amelius says. He turns on his heel and walks away, slurping his drink.

“Ta ta, Amelius,” the gray man says happily. He even waves.

“Unbelievable,” Jules moans. “I hate you both so much.”

“Good evening to you, faithful employee. And how do you do, complete and total stranger.”

Jules snorts and rests a hand on Cassius’ shoulder. “Cassius, this is the chief of staff and my boss, Gaspar Ruholamini. Gaspar, Cassius Wheelwright.”

“Good evening, Mr. Wheelwright,” Mr. Ruholamini murmurs. His voice is neither loud nor quiet, smooth nor harsh. His hand is cool and dry and the grip is a quick flex of pressure, gone almost before it had begun. He examines Cassius with a minute flick of his eyes. “A pleasure to meet you. We’ve heard so little.”

“Oh?”

“We generally do not speak about personal matters. There’s a standing weekly appointment for the airing of the grievances. How long have you know Jules?”

“About six months, I think.”

“Wonderful. Excellent,” Mr. Ruholamini says. “How did you meet?”

Jules huffs. “I spilled a drink on him at a concert. Gaspar—”

"Charming. A story to tell for years. Where did you go to school, Mr. Wheelwright?”

"Er,” Cassius says.

“…  _Ah_. Excuse me, I am infamous for my little faux pas. Jules will be the first to tell you I am very gauche. Your family, they live in the city? The same last name?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

“Did you start your own business or inherit it? Do you have partners? I believe I am familiar with your name but regret I have not had the opportunity to sample your wares. Would you consider your business outlook to be clement for the foreseeable future?”

“This is why I wanted a real dinner,” Jules snaps. “Because if you’re just going to interrogate him all night—”

“I am making rapid and urbane conversation, Jules. Showing an interest in an honored guest. My questions, Mr. Wheelwright?”

“Uh…”

Behind Mr. Ruholamini, the crowd parts and admits an enormous, broad-shouldered man with a full head of white-streaked red hair. His clothing catches the light of the chandeliers, deep indigo brocade shot through with gleaming flashes of satin and ornamented with gold braid.

Cassius knows that face. He’s seen it on coins and stamps.

“Partners,” he says, struggling not to stare. “Yes. One. My sister. We’ve been doing well. Eating has been in fashion lately. Can’t know how long it will last, of course.”

“ _Very_  good,” says Mr. Ruholamini. “I thought as much. Tell me, what is your opinion on Senate Resolution 493? Jules has been working on it tirelessly. She must have spoken of it often. I’m sure you’re bursting to share your own thoughts about her work.”

Cassius’ throat closes. It gives just enough time for the newcomer to sweep in and save him.

“You!” the king booms. It’s addressed to Mr. Ruholamini. The king lays a hand on his back, sidling up alongside him. “Fob me off to come draw first blood on your own, will you? Wretched old snake.”

Mr. Ruholamini turns to stone and adjusts his eyeglasses. “Your Majesty. How impressive to have you arrive so quickly.”

“I just looked for Jules’ head. Makes a good landmark! Especially when she wears the combs I bought her for her birthday.”

The king points an overtly sappy look at Jules, who misses it entirely. Her face is in her hands. She groans.

Mr. Ruholamini is trying to have a conversation with the king using only his eyes, but he seems to be talking to a wall.

“I trust the Duchess of Manfredi is—?”

“Wouldn’t know. I cut her off mid-word. She understands! She’s a mother herself.” The king looks right at Cassius and grins with all the teeth in his mouth. “Well? Introduce me!”

Mr. Ruholamini waves an idle hand in Cassius’ direction.

“Your Majesty, let me present Mr. Cassius Joaquin Wheelwright, 37 years of age, registered independent. His blood type is A. He is a professional baker.”

Cassius’ eyes bug a little. “Er.”

Mr. Ruholamini gives him a razor-thin smile and deliberately misunderstands his hesitation. “Don’t be anxious. ’Your Majesty’ or ‘my lord’ are the preferred addresses.”

“I am going to poison your coffee,” Jules tells her boss.

“Wheelwright it is!” says the king, grinning. He sticks out a hand and Cassius takes it, letting the king squeeze tight and pump his arm up and down. “Delighted, sincerely pleased. We’ve heard nothing from Jules. Tell us all.”

Cassius lets out a sharp and artificial laugh. “I don’t know how much more there is to say, Your Majesty. I only have the one blood type.”

“More concerning if you had either more or less! Point of order, old man,” the king says, tilting his head down to put his mouth at Mr. Ruholamini’s ear. “Why don’t you go get yourself a drink while I speak with the young people?”

“Thank you, sire, but it is likely wiser for me to remain sober this evening. Mr. Wheelwright is modest in his calculation of how much there is to tell. He has known Jules for six months.”

“And I take it you’ve been in love with her for seven, eh?” The king lets out a little bark of laughter at his own joke and strikes Mr. Ruholamini on the back with the flat of his hand.

“They met when Jules threw a drink on him.”

“ _Very_ traditional,” the king nods. “What drew you, Wheelwright, besides her good aim? Our Jules doth teach the torches to burn bright, but of course you wouldn’t base a woman’s quality on that alone.”

Cassius doesn’t remember their first meeting all that well. Beautiful woman, wet lap, loud music, stuffing a handkerchief down his pants… it’s not an experience he entirely enjoyed. They’d just talked, really, and then gotten a bite, and then promised to see each other around since they liked the same music. By the end of that second concert it was abruptly clear that they were dating. 

It just happened, and it happened pretty fast. Nothing in the style of a fairytale romance at all.

“Er, no, of course it wasn’t just her looks. It was…” Cassius tangles his hands together, trying to illustrate without being obscene. “You know. Chemistry.”

“I see,” King Rudolph rumbles. “Must have been her wit and charm, mustn’t it?”

“Must’ve,” Cassius agrees.

“Is he romantic, Jules?”

Jules is staring up at the ceiling like a turkey in the rain. She flinches. “Oh, sweet Jesus. My lord…”

“Do you cherish her, Wheelwright? Treat her thoughtfully? You’re no poet, I perceive, and aren’t in the habit of writing paeans to her excellence, but I’m sure there are opportunities to show her what a wonderful person she is. Alas, spare time isn’t heaped on the ground around here, but the little things…”

“It is all little things, and they’re lovely,” Jules says. “We have fun together. We like each other’s company.”

King Rudolph says ‘mm’ in a rather definite way. Jules takes Cassius’ hand with her eyebrows knitted together.

“You know for yourself what a treasure Jules is,” the king goes on. “What a gift. And how beloved by those who know her. Of course you know all that. Couldn’t mistake it for a moment. And you wouldn’t. Right?”

It’s too much. Jules is spoiling for a fight. “Oh my God. My lord, I’ve got to know… would you be acting like this if Amelius wanted you to meet someone?”

The king’s head lurches a little. He glances at Mr. Ruholamini, who seems similarly taken aback, and responds with a wry twist of his lips.

“Of course not! We’d want a full interrogation long before they ever met us.”

Mr. Ruholamini nods. “We always expected you to be serious-minded about your lovers, Jules. Amelius, however, is a romantic. Likely to be swept off his feet. His paramour would be obliged to present a deposition in front of the senate.”

Jules snorts. “I knew you were going to be ridiculous, but you always hunt for ways to impress me, don’t you?”

“Back on the subject,” King Rudolph says, “it’s not that we wanted to give you a stern warning within four minutes of meeting you, Wheelwright. We’d rather get to know you, since you’re likely to become seriously involved with our Jules.”

“‘Our Jules’ in the  professional sense, of course,” Mr. Ruholamini insists.

“I hate you, Father,” Jules tells him.

“But we’re strapped for time this evening,” King Rudolph goes on. “So forgive us for doing things out of order, but let it be simply and clearly understood that we’ll bring legal action against you if you start dicking around. Capiche?”

Cassius bites his lips together for a moment. This is not a good moment to smile. Not at all. “Is there a legal definition of dicking around that I should understand, my lord, or is it being used in the conventional manner?”

“One of those things where you know it when you see it, I think,” says the king. He slowly nods. “Good. Now that that’s out of the way, let’s hear a little bit more about you. Go on. Earliest childhood first. Do speak up.”

Mr. Ruholamini’s eyes are pointed over Cassius’ shoulder, scanning the room. His gaze lights on something and he folds both hands on the head of his cane.

“Ah,” he says.

Cassius knows now why he thought Mr. Ruholamini’s face didn’t quite work before now. It only fits together when he smiles, broad and big. Smug.

“Etelia,” Mr. Ruholamini purrs. “There you are.”

A blur of violet fabric zips around to the king’s side and His Majesty actually jumps, even before Etelia begins hissing at him.

Jules, on her last legs, finds the strength to try. “Etelia, this is—”

Etelia points her face at Cassius, unseeing, and curtseys. “I am so charmed to meet you. I beg your pardon. Your Majesty, may I have a moment of your time?”

“Not really,” the king says.

“My lord, the cabinet awaits your pleasure for an extremely short briefing and I have talking points for your dinner conversation.” She laces her fingers together in front of her belly and adopts a posture of some supplication. “It will take five minutes.”

The king looks at her for a moment and heaves a huge sigh. He nods his head. “Yes. Yes, of course. Lead on.”

“Forgive me, Etelia,” Mr. Ruholamini says, fixing a warm look on her. “I should have brought these meetings up in the dressing room. It slipped my mind. Thank you for keeping us on track.”

A little color rises into Etelia’s cheeks and she smiles happily. She bows her head and murmurs, “Of course, sir,” and begins to hurry away.

“What would I do without her? She has  _such_  a good head for timing,” Mr. Ruholamini observes. “I’ll continue getting to know our guest, sire. Take your time.”

The king smiles broadly at him. “When I come back, I’m gonna kick your ass.”

Mr. Ruholamini’s eyes flash above the rim of his glasses. “Very good, sire.”

“See me later, Wheelwright,” King Rudolph says. “We’ll have a drink and talk as men do.”

The king departs and Jules clenches a discreet fist at his back.

“You get to see the executive office in action tonight, Mr. Wheelwright,” Mr. Ruholamini sighs. “Isn’t it exciting. Let’s fetch something to drink and chat until His Majesty returns, shall we?”

Jules scowls. “Weren’t you going to stay sober?”

“I was, but life comes at one very fast, does it not. Mr. Wheelwright, lend me your arm. I do not get around very easily and it is helpful to have a strong body to lean on.”

“Right,” says Cassius. Mr. Ruholamini’s grip isn’t strong, but somehow it doesn’t need to be.

“Has Jules told you how I lost the leg? Attacked by a rabid dog and left for gangrene. The left limb is false—”

“It isn’t,” Jules mumbles.

“—but I’ll thank you not to step on the foot of it all the same. It scuffs the shoe leather. The rabies is nearly gone now, as well. I understand your Uncle Willard fought in the war in ’63? My gratitude for his sacrifice. Do you still have any of his letters from the field?”

“I imagine we do, but I haven’t seen them. My father was pretty torn up about his death,” Cassius manages. “Strange but true. Older brothers, am I right?”

Mr. Ruholamini snorts once. “I cannot wait to hear everything about your charming family, Mr. Wheelwright.”

“If it’s less time consuming than talking, I can just annotate your notes, Mr. Ruholamini.”

“Ha, ha. Very, very good. Take a tone with me and test my boundaries. It’s the fastest way to earn my good opinion.” He looks over his shoulder at Jules. “You remember my senate days?”

“With post-traumatic vivacity,” Jules grouses.

“This is what my charm offensive looks like. This is why we never did it.”

“I always voted against you.”

“My, my, Jules, that cuts deep. Better disinfect the wound. Tell me your drink order, Mr. Wheelwright, and then I still mean to hear your thoughts about Senate Resolution 493.”

* * *

The next day, a royal page arrives at Wheelwright and Co. Bakery with an order for four of everything in Cassius’ repertoire. Despite the troubling implication that his audition isn’t over quite yet, Cassius finds himself smiling as he puts the first batch of muffins into the oven, thinking of the smell rising up to wake Jules where she sleeps in his bed.

He’s going to take this as a good sign. If he’s going to have three fathers-in-law some day, he’d want them to be loyal customers, too.


	15. Sabbatical

It happens so suddenly, the first time, that he almost thinks he has a chance.

There is no terrible inevitability, no gradation to the fall. There is only before and after—a moment’s pause to look out a window, a different route to the private study, a stubbed toe or a moment’s inattention, and he might have avoided it utterly. But he didn’t.

Gaspar has been the chief of staff just over a year, a little more than 400 days of living in his master’s pockets and conducting vast intricacies of state business. There is no reason it should happen when or how it does. He is delivering a piece of news to his king, and to do it he must take a familiar turn around a familiar corner to see a familiar face waiting for him, but then—

There it is.

He stops in his tracks. His eyes blink and flutter, struggling to see against this bolt from the sky.

All his days before this instant collapse into a limp line. Another life, as bright and strange as the new world lit in the first dawn, snaps into him and drags him forward.

Sitting in the study, his king collapses, too, like a star dying. All Gaspar’s stark and dusty bits of knowledge burn red hot into each other, awareness of his king’s beautiful body folding into awareness of his king’s beautiful heart folding into awareness of his king’s beautiful spirit. Together they all burst apart inside him, and his frail body is too small to contain the waves of fire that blaze out of his roasting heart: but his vast and growing and terrible love for his country is just the right size to hold it all.

Everything that his king is reaches out and touches Gaspar’s every cell, each molecule in his being, and then moves deeper in, seeping into his interstitial spaces and filling them with Rudolph, Rudolph, and all the jangling music he brings, the sounds of a future endlessly within Gaspar’s reach and always nearly, almost, there. Between his atoms, trumpets blare. Every nerve tingles with song. He is all himself, entirely, and every gap in him is riddled through with this man.

Shaken like a bird in a cage, his soul rattles against his bones.

“All right, old man?”

His ridiculous, beautiful, wonderful king asks that of a man who died right in front of him. Gaspar is still wearing that man’s skin, still leaning on that man’s cane, with the cataclysm still vibrating in his blood. He’s only just back from the dead. How can he be all right?

“Yes,” he says. “Entirely, sire. Good morning. I come bearing news…”

Shocked, he floats outside of himself, wondering at it all. In the back of his mind he braces for the next blow, the next moment his life will break like a china cup.

All in a moment it happened, and all in a moment it could be undone. He uses this thought as a rope to pull himself back together, and over the course of the day he fits himself into this new skin and learns the way his new nerves feel. Step by step he finds a path and explains his new world to himself.

The first thing to recognize is that the universe can’t have collapsed, after all.

It feels deathly serious, but the circumstances bely sincerity. Basic physics says it would have taken some time for him to fall as deep as he seems to be, but there was no delay at all. He was in one place and then he was in another, in an instant, in the twinkling of an eye. If it took no time, consequently he cannot have fallen, and consequently he cannot be as deep as he thinks he is;  _quod erat demonstrandum_. Better than that:  _quod erat faciendum_.

He has not fallen. Has not. It is a mere nothing.

How funny, then. He’s either had a little stroke or he’s developed a little crush. All his limbs still seem to work about as well as they did before, so it seems he’s caught infatuation for the sovereign ruler of his nation. And why not? Think of all the healthy, rightful things he feels for his king: respect, regard, approval, fondness, friendship, trust. Easy to misunderstand them as symptoms of a disease far darker, far more powerful.

A little crush, that’s all. And what it does to him! He hasn’t felt alive like this in years. He feels flushed, and full of blood, and crackling with every step like a newborn foal.

He almost thinks he should enjoy the fluttering and the excitement while it lasts. It will be gone in a few months. In a matter of days it will all go back to what it was before and he will be as he was before. He have utterly forgotten that his heart ever skipped a single beat at the sight of his king.

Until then, it will be very easy to conceal. No harm has been done.

* * *

For the next 14 years, he will wonder how he could have been such a fool.

* * *

“Today is the first day of the next five weeks of our lives,” Maeve observes.

“You can’t know that for sure,” says Jules.

“We could die before then,” Amelius agrees. “It could be the first day of the next 48 hours of our lives.”

“Are you all going to sit in his office all day?” asks the king. He stands in the doorway and doesn’t so much as lift an eyebrow at Maeve, sprawled on her back and starfished on the carpet.

“To be fair, my lord, you’ve been standing outside his office almost as long as we’ve been here.”

“Talking to my staff. It’s an allowable use. How do you have the time to sit, hmm? Knowing him, I would’ve thought you were individually left with big folders full of things to get done.”

Jules and Amelius wave their big folders of things to get done in the air.

“You’ve got to let us pine a little, Dad,” Jules replies. “Now that we’ve already filled all his unlocked desk drawers with surprises for when he gets back, we have to face up to the fact that he’s really gone.”

The king’s face creases.

“What do you think he’s doing with his holiday?” Maeve wonders. “He didn’t mention it to me.”

“Nor me.” Amelius puffs on his pipe. “Right now, he’s getting jostled down the road towards the sea, I’d imagine.”

“The sea? Interesting. hat’s more of a lead than I had. I bet he’s going on a cruise.”

Jules snorted. “God. Can you imagine…?”

“A single’s cruise,” Maeve sings. She sits up and grins, shimmying her shoulders. “To meet his true love.”

“Yeah, I really think of him as the kind of man who’s open to meeting new people and making deep personal connections with them in a short amount of time.”

“Fair point. Then it’s probably a cruise for meaningless sex. Maybe kinksters!”

“Stop,” the king intones. He leans against the doorjamb.

“No, can’t you see it?” Maeve leans back on her elbows, crossing her legs at the ankles. “He’s going to indulge his iron-fisted sadism by reading policy briefs to whimpering masochists for five weeks. When their attention begins to drift he hits them with his cane. They have to call him ‘Senator’ or ‘sir’ and if they really want to please him, they ask if they can take notes.”

Jules strokes her chin. “Hmm. You’ve given this so much thought.”

“He’s secretly a leather daddy. It’s why he doesn’t like us to call him ‘daddy.’ He’s used to hearing it under highly naked circumstances.”

“Guh,” Jules shudders. “I don’t want to think about why he wouldn’t want us to call him ‘father,’ then.”

The king stands in the hall with a hand covering his face. “I truly don’t think he’d mind very much if I fired you all right now. Do you?”

“Leather?” Amelius asks. “On a cruise? Wouldn’t that get hot?”

Maeve grins. “I’ll have you know that assless chaps are pretty breezy.”

“Wow. There’s your family resemblance for you.”

“Well, what do you think he’s doing, smartass?”

“I think he’s in a carriage, getting jostled down towards the sea.”

“I think,” Jules sniffs, “he’s already on his way back, with a thin pretext about something he’s forgotten that will conveniently require him to stay and work here for the next five weeks.”

“He can try,” says the king. “I let the checkpoints know they’re not to let that carriage turn back, or any horses carrying men of his description, or cloaked people in wheelchairs. I’ll answer for it in court, no doubt. But he’s going on that vacation.”

“You’re a good boss, Dad.”

“Tell me about it.” He heaves a deep sigh. “It’s going to be a long five weeks.”

“There, there. It’ll be over before you know it.”

“It really won’t. Get to work, you brats.”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

The king gives them one last glower and heads down the hallway towards his office.

“Don’t worry about the long face. He’ll get used to it,” Jules says. “Just needs to get back into the flow of things. Soon he’ll be wondering why we even have him in the first place.”

“No,” Amelius murmurs, “I don’t know that he will.”

“You heard that, right? ‘Get to work, brats,’” Maeve mimics. She waves an arm and makes a whip-crack noise with her mouth. “Keeping it spicy. Secret to a happy marriage.”

* * *

He gets jostled down the road to the sea for the entire first day of his sabbatical. Full night has fallen by the time the carriage arrives in town and he barely manages to get into his room in the inn before he collapses.

He doesn’t count that as a real day, but the next isn’t much better. The first full day of his sabbatical is completely lost in anticipation of the first full night.

He’s distracted. He’s been distracted for a very long time, at least three years, and now that he knows that comfortable fixation is so nearly within reach, he cannot make himself do anything except indulge his distraction. In the morning he sits in a café and runs his eyes over the pages of a book. After lunch he stretches out on a chaise and lets the sun sink into his skin. In the afternoon, he rolls himself down to the shore and lets the water lap at his legs.

Filled. Warmed. Licked.

He barely sees the daylight, lost as he is in the heat in his belly, the soft clench of his muscles, the slow squirm behind his navel and down. Three years. Who was the last time…?

After dinner he lingers on the patio, watching an impromptu party nearby. He picked this town for a reason, and the other visitors did very much the same. As the sun finishes setting, torch light begins to flicker and dance. Music loses its rarified tone and sinks lower and lower to the ground, tracing a slow and sinuous path through the crowd just around hip-height, drawing warm body towards each other.

He strokes the stem of a wine glass between two fingers, up… and down…, and watches. The evening breeze makes linen wave and ripple. Beneath it, skin rises and falls, sun-warmed flesh cooling in the night air.

The man from one table over keeps nearly missing his gaze. He smiles a little and returns the favor, and soon enough he has company.

Soft voices introducing themselves. Slow smiles blossom from their conversation. His new friend’s long eyelashes fan over a pair of clear grey eyes, his gaze as heavy as warm steel where it traces the open neck of his shirt. He shifts for his friend’s benefit, exposes a sliver more of bare skin, and finishes his wine.

No reluctance regarding the leg. He can do everything he wants lying down. His new friend has been worshipping the sun a few days longer than he has. Golden lines run from the top of his head down through his long hair, and he admires them far too much.

His shoulders are a bit narrow, but they will be wide enough to hold. He is a warm, welcome presence as they leave the patio and head down the hall.

His rooms. A mouth finds his in the dark and quiet and runs soft and hot and smooth and scratchy against his lips, bristly moustache brushing delicate skin. It’s been three years—he reaches out with both hands and cups the unseen face, tilting and meshing his mouth to its, thumbs running over cheekbones and fingers sliding into thick hair. Warm skin brushes his face again and again. He grasps the shoulders and squeezes, feeling smooth skin, soft and wrapped around exquisite strength. He strokes the neck and feels dense muscle with blood fluttering against his touch.

He likes to feel. He wants to watch.

“I’d like to light the candles,” he breathes. Shudders as the mouth slides down his neck and big, strong hands stroke along his sides. “If you don’t mind. I want to see.”

“Oh, yes,” says his friend.

He lights the candles and his friend lets him see. Unhurried kissing for long, easy minutes, and then his friend sits down, parts his legs, beckons him closer.

“Join me.”

But he likes being dressed, just now. Soon it will be too much and he’ll need to feel all this skin against all of his, but for now— for now. For now, he’s finally not distracted.

He wheels himself forward. Looks his new friend up and down. Sets two hands on two knees. Squeezes one and strokes his thumb against the skin.

Licks his lips, kiss-bitten, aching for more.

“First,” he says, “may I…?”

His friend smiles. “Oh, yes,” he says again.

Kisses his lips again, teasing the skin, and then mouths against hotter, hotter skin, brushing, soft and slow now. Hair tickles the tip of his nose. Soft brushes, a sly little flick of his tongue. Hands on hips.

Fingers in his hair.

His glasses are still on. He’s still dressed. His hair is only just falling out of the tie and brushing his face as he’s petted with restless hands. He smiles and kisses and licks and then lets his lips part slowly around the tip.

_Just like this. He’d be just like this. Hot and soft and thick in the dark. Wearing nothing but firelight you’d finally see how beautiful he is. Golden. Glorious. If he was away from home, if he found you in some quiet little peasant’s dive and wanted you, if he ever let you…_

_It would be just like this._

He lets it stretch him, hold him open. Slide on his tongue. Slick his lips. He sits still and feels it press against him from the inside, head spinning, mouth wet and eager where he holds still and, for one moment, keeps his friend warm.

“Mmm,” his friend murmurs. Pets his hair. “That’s nice.”

He hums, agreeing.

“C’mon, please…”

He smiles, and it’s a strain to do it, but he slides back and sucks as he goes. His friend’s breath hitches and a low groan rumbles up from deep in his belly. He rubs a hand on his friend’s stomach and feels the noise on its path to his friend’s mouth, and the thought of being so close and so completely in control makes him burn hot.

“You’ve got a great mouth,” his friend breathes.

Praise. Good God.

He takes it again, and again.  _Just like this. You’d make it good for him. He’d moan and sigh for you, praise you, tell you how good it is. He’d want you to do it. He’d take everything you wanted to give him, everything, just like this._

_He’d let you take care of him. Then he’d take care of you._

The noises are obscene, wet and slurping, but it’s lovely, it’s gentle and slow and so good that tears prick at the corners of his eyes. Soon enough he’ll be slick and desperate and stretching around it, whimpering for pleasure, for something he needs more than air. But right now he’s got everything he could want. It’s so nice. It feels so sweet.

He scrambles for one strong hand and laces their fingers together, and takes it deep, and swallows, and oh…

And it’s been three years…

“Ohh, fuck,” his friend gasps. “Oh, fuck, daddy—”

He gags and draws back, coughing a little.  _Christ’s blood. Maeve._

“Sorry,” he croaks. “I’m going to have to stop you there.”

* * *

“Sorry,” his friend says later. “It just slipped out.”

“Mhm,” he says determinedly.

“I think it’s the moustache—”

He squeezes his eyes closed. “Please shut up.”

* * *

If he was ever trying to take a vacation, he set himself up for failure by calling it a sabbatical.

In the morning he does his stretches and goes to the café, and at noon he does his exercises and sleeps in the sun, and in the afternoon he tests his strength by walking from the beach to the shore. At night he eats dinner. He does not see his new friend.

It doesn’t matter much. He drinks a glass of wine, listens to the music, and thinks about his leg.

In the morning he goes to the café. At noon he sleeps in the sun. In the afternoon, he walks ever so slightly too far, and has to sit for a long time before he can get back to his hotel. At night he drinks a glass of wine, and does not eat his dinner. This also doesn’t matter much.

He makes it all the way to the fourth morning before he gives in. He wakes, and remains flat on his back in bed, watching the dust motes dance in the growing sunshine. Twenty-six more days of these walls and these mornings, noons, and nights. Twenty six more days of being alone, and old, and still so terribly distracted.

He can’t do it. Not if he found 26 new friends. Not if he swallowed 26 bottles of wine.

‘Sabbatical,’ he’d said. He had to leave open the possibility of working to have any peace of mind at all. Work is the only thing that relaxes him. Relaxing is what his king would want him to do.

“All right,” he sighs.

He walks slowly past the café and into the shop of a travel agent. There, he asks a number of questions they are not accustomed to answering. They try to help him, and together they develop a plan.

He looks at the figure they present him for tickets back towards the North. It’s not very affordable, since he will be going against the traffic, but it’s as good as anyone is likely to do for him.

“This will be fine,” he says.

“Are you certain, sir? You only just—”

“Very certain.”

The travel agent cringes a smile and hands him all the documents he needs.

By evening, he’s packed and settled in a carriage, rumbling towards the capital once more. At night they refresh the horses at an inn on the distant outskirts of the city, and he sleeps better than he has in a long time.

He needs his rest, after all. Horuel is a long ride away.

* * *

On the fifth day since he left the sea, they pause for a break at the edge of a lake as clear and blue as a topaz. They have been riding through splendor for days, rolling along twisty roads that ripple between lofty blue mountains like the ziggurats of Nephelim. At elevation the lakes turn into living mirrors, pushed into shallow lapping waves by the breezes that come coasting over the peaks and carry the flavor of distant snow to the people far below.

At the edge of every lake there are little outcroppings of houses with red roofs and churches with bulbs out of which spires grow, like metal amaryllis stems reaching for the sun. All the trees have been green for months, lush and splendid.

It looks like heaven. He sees the clear traces where the winter must make it hell.

They’ve seen one corpse so far. On the third day, just over the border, they stopped to water the horses at a lake much like this one. He’d looked up from his newspaper to scan the sunny scenery and spotted a body hanging over the water less than a quarter mile away. For a moment he’d worried about contamination, but a few steps had taken him close enough to see that the body had been left hanging long ago and was wasted to dry bones and old tatters.

He still didn’t drink that water. He doesn’t regret the choice now.

Besides the driver, there is a young man who shares the carriage with him. He has tried all the tongues he knows but with faltering pidgin phrases and apologetic shrugs the young man indicates that they have no shared language. He is rather proud of his polyglot ways and to be unable to communicate beyond the occasional facial expression keeps him quietly uneasy.

The journey reminds him how silent his own company is. He feels words beginning to fall away, even now, and he lives each thoughtless moment as a pair of eyes. He makes no choices. He eats what’s put in front of him. He walks where the streets show him he can go. He rediscovers the soft animal smell of his skin when he goes a day without a bath. He sleeps when it is dark and rises with the sun. He uses no candles. All he buys are food and newspapers, when he can get them, and what he reads doesn’t connect to any higher planning function. He takes in the information and lets it sit barren.

Ever inland, the carriage rumbles like one steady little thundercloud towards the capital city. They don’t go fast or far, which suits him perfectly. Horuel is a poor country, or at any rate less developed than his own, and he is finding it both exceedingly different and exceeding similar to his expectations. The people are civil and calm and uncommunicative. He sees few beggars. Many of them have crutches. He thinks of his conversation with Garou, and wonders, and when he gives alms he walks on with his cane striking the dirt streets, thump, thump, thump, like a steady heartbeat.

At night, his mind wanders back to his first evening at the shore, hunting for the memory of warm skin. Later, lying awake, he thinks of his king and his children.

If he’s not back to intercept it, there will be one letter that leave the shore. If he had been thinking, he would have left behind a series of false letters, ready to be delivered in stages so no one suspects before he is ready for them to know where he is. In a few days his king will come to wonder why he is being so silent, but right now it has been only 10 days since he was last sitting in his office. He needs just a little more time, and perhaps he will have something he can report.

He sits by the edge of the lake on the fourth day, reading the newspaper under the shade of a tree with no corpses. At a little distance the young man sleeps in the sun with his hat over his face, while the driver fusses the horses and eats his luncheon.

The hoofbeats on the road reach his ears long before the sight of the rider reaches his eyes. For that much, he has the advantage.

The rider comes right up to the shade of his tree before she dismounts. The dust of the road is packed tight to her boots, with two thin clean streaks where her stirrups covered the leather.

“Your Honor.” The woman address him in his own language. He rises to his feet to receive her and bows.

“Good morning, miss.”

“My master the Duke extends his greetings,” the rider says. “Following this road you will come to his castle before nightfall. He wishes to extend his hospitality to your carriage and your companions.”

“His Grace is very kind. We are en route to the capital. I am sure we wish to take him up on the offer.”

“Very wise,” says the woman, and against his better judgement he smiles. “We will expect you before sundown.”

“I cannot imagine I will dally long on this road. You will likely see us around then.”

“Before sundown,” she repeats, and mounts her horse once more. “We expect you.”

She steers it off at a quick canter and resumes the road. He watches her until she disappears. He can’t blame her for the quick exit. It would be much less intimidating if she’d stopped to water the horse and take her rest in the sun.

The young man seems not to understand the situation one way or the other, but the carriage driver will brook no deviations from the itinerary. If he means to take the Duke up on his offer, he will have to go alone. They were always scheduled to pass through the village of the castle, so the driver agrees with no especial display of reluctance to leave him and his luggage in town. The luggage doesn’t amount to very much, but though he only has one bag, he has a cane, too.

Late in the afternoon he dismounts in the village and looks up towards the castle.

Square and tall and made of flat white stone, the castle sits in the upper hills between two of the beautiful mountains, tucked like a spider into a crevice. When the wind blows at just the right angle through the gap below them, it moans like a dying thing, sighing and sobbing as it makes its escape and flies out towards another lake, another mirror.

He waits until the noise of the carriage has disappeared and he’s alone with the crying wind. He takes up his bag and starts the walk.

A guardsman meets him at the first gate and takes his bag for him. He’s already secreted his papers on his person, as well as a little money, but he demurs nevertheless. The guard isn’t moved, and leads him solemnly on with a gloved hand wrapped around his few worldly possessions.

What is he doing, walking into a mouth like this? As he goes he runs his fingers over every bit of stone he can reach, testing himself on the teeth of the beast. Into the gullet of the unknown.

They pass a gate and a chorus of canine howling bursts into the air, crying and lilting and baying for the hunt. His heart pounds likes a rabbit’s and he tries to think of the hunting dogs at home, big and well-trained and as vicious as devils on the trail of a fox.

His king has never brought home a fox that hurried right into his arms. He can only hope the Duke will be equally curious about lambs that walk to the slaughter.

The guard leads him past the dogs and through a large gate, into a flat yard that runs up to the castle doors. There is nowhere to hide, with the guard walking him right down the center of the yard — along the distant walls he sees cannons and weapons stowed neatly away, and a proving ground tucked into a corner. No trees, here, and nothing keeping the yellow dirt packed to the ground except the weight of human bodies stamping it down, passing it over and over and over again.

His cane goes thump, thump, thump, and inside his leg he feels his bones aching. He has been pushing himself to abandon the wheelchair since before they left Velancia, but this is the longest he has been on the leg since the poisoning. Exhaustion eats away at his muscles. If he is allowed to sleep tonight, he will sleep like the dead.

The guard approaches the door and raises the iron knocker.  _Boom. Boom. Boom_. He can hear nothing from behind the door, but in a moment it swings solemnly and silently wide, revealing the rider within.

“Good evening, Your Honor,” she says. “Right on time. Thank you, Hans.”

Hans passes her his suitcase and bows. He turns on his heel, without acknowledging Gaspar at all, and walks back the way he came.

“I am Latrice. You must be tired. Come in and rest, Your Honor. I will show you where you will spend the night.”

Inside, the castle is more square stone walls and worn right angles. Latrice leads him up a flight of steps and into a hall dressed in a thin but radiantly red carpet. The third door from the stairs opens under her hand, and he’s waved into—wonder of wonders—a bedroom with an old bed frame, a wardrobe and desk, a wash stand, and a view of the mountains.

“Your Honor may wish to refresh yourself here. Dinner is not held until after the sun goes down. You will wish to dress and be summoned before then.”

“Yes. Thank you,” he says quietly.

She sets his suitcase down beside the wash stand. “I will send Your Honor tea.”

“Thank you,” he says again, and she shuts the door behind her.

He thinks he hears the soft scrape of a key in the lock, and his heart turns in his chest.

He holds panic tight behind his teeth. There’s something strange about this room, so he crosses the floor to either confirm his hopes or own his horror. Outside, the wind passes through the mountains, and a cry of sorrow and suffering rises up to beat against his window. Something sets the dogs off again, and they howl with the restless wind.

He approaches the door, and against the crying wind and the screaming dogs, against his judgement and his inclination, he finds himself smiling once again.

There are two locks on the door. She locked him in with one, using a key in the hallway.

The other is a bolt. It faces him. He turns the bolt and locks her out in kind.

Oh dear, oh dear. Perhaps these are nice people, after all.

* * *

In fact he eats dinner alone.

Tea comes up to him and the lock scrapes once more. The servant then taps on the door and he unlocks it from his side, accepting the tray and finding himself closed in once more. He locks the door behind them.

All of it is a matter for terrible concern, but for now there is nothing he can do except feed and water himself, wash his body and shave off the extra growth of facial hair that five days on the road have given him. He is absolutely weaponless, unless he razor counts. He can’t use it well enough to make a serious difference.

He drinks his tea and watches the sun set over the mountains. When the last orange glimmers fade out behind the huge black bodies in the distance, he lights a candle and writes down a short note about his travels so far.

He is summoned about an hour after the sun sets. He’s already read his newspaper twice through, and although he half-expects to be led into a chamber for pain and humiliation and possibly cannibalism, it’s a welcome change to have something to do.

But Latrice simply leads him into a smallish dining room with a place set for one. He pauses at the side of the table and folds both hands over the head of his cane.

“His Grace will not be able to join you this evening,” she says. “You will excuse him. Urgent business requires his attention.”

“Certainly. I am happy to await his pleasure, if that is desirable. I would not wish to abuse his hospitality.”

“Eat,” says Latrice.

He sits down and he eats. The food is plain and satisfying, heavy stewed meat served with a black bread. He drinks a small glass of wine.

He waits at the table and watches the candle flames as the tapers begin to burn low. Latrice has not come back and he’s not inclined to seek out his room once again. Surely they are going through all his things, if they mean to live up to any piece of their reputation. He wants to give them all the time they need.

At last, a man appears at the far side of the room. Gaspar rises to his feet and bows, and with some surprise sees that the man mimics him at a few feet of distance. Under one arm, the man carries a box. He is not dressed like a duke, but that doesn’t mean much.

“Good evening,” Gaspar says.

“Good evening, Mr. Ruholamini,” the man says. “Please, don’t get up. Thank you so much for waiting.”

He has a smooth and light voice, but it comes out of his mouth at a slight angle. He seems to be a man habitually amused by others, and he is amused tonight. He is gamine and raw-looking, vulture-like, and his nose has been broken once before.

The man sets the box down on the table and opens a hinge on the side. With agile fingers he unpacks the box and reveals it to be a splendid chess set, carved from pieces of ivory and some kind of black stone. He sets up the board quickly and pours himself a glass of wine.

“You have the advantage, sir,” Gaspar says.

“I do,” the man agrees. He takes a seat at Gaspar’s left hand and smiles at him over the rim of his wine glass. “I trust your room is comfortable?”  
  
“Extremely. I am very much obliged to your generous hospitality.”

“We are delighted to host you. I admit I have been curious about you for some time, Mr. Ruholamini. I had hoped one day to open you up and see what made you tick, but I didn’t think I would get the chance. I am therefore very obliged to you as well.”

Gaspar holds his peace. The man smiles at him once again and drinks his wine. They wait for each other, and when the glass is half-empty, the man speaks again.

“Are you visiting Horuel for pleasure, then?”

“Yes. Tourism.”

“You have picked a beautiful time to come. All the rest of the year we are very savage, I’m afraid. These few weeks are all the more lovely for their brevity. No one sleeps in the summer—we stay up all night and all day. It’s the only time to feel alive.”

“I do not blame you.”

“You were curious about us,” the man says. “I have heard that you were. It is gratifying to see that you are a man who will see with his own eyes, first and foremost.”

“No, sir. I always prefer to know for myself, but I often have to act on hearsay, first and foremost.”

“A perfectly pragmatic approach… and of course, some hearsay is quite true,” the man allows. His mouth pinches in a very shallow moue. “We cannot entirely escape the choices of our forebears. We are here because this castle was built for a grieving princess, who wanted to surround herself with the noise of suffering. We play this game because her son made this chess set himself.”

“It is very handsome.”

“Isn’t it? All the ivory is human. Quite old and harmless now. But once, it was mostly a young person’s wet, living femur.”

Gaspar blinks his eyes very slowly.

“Perhaps it was insensitive of me to bring it out,” the man says. “You of all people would consider this a waste of a healthy leg.”

He speaks when he is sure his voice will stay steady. “Your Grace—”

“Oh, no, Mr. Ruholamini,” laughs the man. “I am no one; a jumped-up little peasant, in all truth, the son of a thief and a liar. It’s likelier by far that a member of my family was the material for these pieces, rather than the maker. His Grace will join us shortly, I hope.”

“Sir, in that case,” he insists, “I must protest at cheap shots about my disability. You have impressed me very much so far, far more than I was impressed by the man Garou in Belaria. He, too, went for the easy target, but I would be so much more intrigued if you would continue to be creative.”

The man’s mouth breaks into a great big smile of genuine delight. Garou’s mouth had been all barbed wire, but there’s a different sharpness altogether in this man’s face. They could be cousins, somehow, but nothing closer.

“Creativity, from a man of Horuel?” he laughs. “Mr. Ruholamini! What a marvelous man you are, to make such a marvelous request.”

“Perhaps. You’ll forgive any eccentricity I reveal. I am on vacation.”

“Just so, just so. You met Garou, then? Oh, dear, dear me. I am sorry, Mr. Ruholamini. He was very difficult when I met him, and I’ve known him to hold a grudge.”

“He claimed the Duke as his master, but I suppose anyone in the territory would do the same.”

“Yes, I imagine so. But service… nothing of the kind. Ever. I found him very sloppy, no matter how much I might applaud his passion in the abstract. No, Mr. Ruholamini, I just told you. I always wanted you very, very much alive.”

“Wonderful. That makes two of us.”

“In as much as one grown man may apologize for the undirected actions of another, I do apologize for that. It was not our will at all, although we were disappointed with Albertina’s rejection of His Grace’s suit.” The man shrugs. “More fish in the sea, I am sure.”

“Truly.”

“You must think likewise, as you keep up the bride hunt for your king.”

Gaspar lowers his head and lifts it again.

A door at the right side of the room opens and another man steps in. He’s tall and powerfully built, broad-shouldered and handsome despite the gray hair making inroads in his beard. Gaspar watches the way he moves—the grace of a man accustomed to a clear place in the world. If he turns on you, there will be no place to withstand the blast. He does not walk like a man who knows how to yield.

Gaspar’s interlocutor stands and bows deeply, and Gaspar follows his lead.

“Greetings, Your Grace,” the man purrs. “I wish you good evening.”

“Sit,” says the newcomer. He lowers one eyebrow at the man across the table and turns his attention to Gaspar.

The Duke looks him over throughly and lets out a huff through his nose.

“May I present Gaspar Ruholamini of the court of His Majesty King Rudolph, Your Grace,” the man says.

Gaspar bows again.

“Hm,” says the Duke. “You’ve met my man already, though I doubt he introduced himself. This is Sultenfuss.”

The Duke takes the seat at Gaspar’s right hand, putting himself across the table from Sultenfuss. The ivory chess pieces are on his side, and he reaches out with a tired gesture of his hand to move a pawn.

“Have you eaten, Your Grace?” Sultenfuss asks. He moves his knight. “I would be pleased to pour a glass of wine.”

“No,” the Duke says. “I will eat later, in privacy.”

“Our guest this evening is an extremely interesting man. Mr. Ruholamini was a senator before he became a marriage broker. Presumably he got into the work because of a deep-seated romantic instinct.”

The Duke’s mouth twists. His movements on the chess board are clear and decisive, and his hands do not hesitate. In any other context Gaspar thinks they might be a pleasure to watch. His fingers are not as long as Sultenfuss’, but they look powerful and clever. They know where to hurt, presumably, but to watch them move it seems clear that they also know where and how to hold.

Gaspar catches himself watching them too closely and swallows, horrified at himself. He has been sleeping shortly after sunset, lately. He is usually in bed by now. In bed and remembering. He tries to shake it off.

Does his king like chess? Personally, he can’t stand it, but if his king likes it perhaps they might play together, now and then. Something to prolong their rare tranquil evenings and let Gaspar soak up as much of the man’s company as he dares.

Of course, to have one of those evenings he would have to stop himself from working. And he would have to assume he will be leaving this castle alive.

“The Devil can reign in Austermuhl for all I care of it,” the Duke says. He takes Sultenfuss’ queen. “It was a bad idea from the start.”

“Marriage, or marriage to Albertina?” Gaspar asks quietly. Sultenfuss smiles and takes a pawn.

“Both. Either.” The Duke scrubs a hand over his face, but when he looks up again it’s directly at Sultenfuss. “All of it. Misery in the making.”

“Very good, Your Grace,” Sultenfuss allows. He takes a sip of his wine.

“Why did your come to Horuel?” the Duke asks Gaspar.

“Tourism. I came to see it for myself.” He pauses and decides to tell the truth. “I could not— in fact, I found myself confused.”

“Indeed?” lilts Sultenfuss.

“It was not clear to me who offered and who asked Albertina’s hand, and why. And when it was rejected, it was not clear why I would be attacked. It did not make sense, to launch an attack on a citizen of another nation while that citizen was a visitor in a third country. It could so easily have been considered an act of war. No part of it was rational, to me, especially with all these lurid stories about how hidebound and isolated Horuel is thought to be. I thought I might understand the thread of it if I came to you.”

After all, one must walk into the mouth of death to find any knowledge. How could he give wise counsel about life if he didn’t force himself to see a bit of the underworld here and there?

Sultenfuss sits with his elbow on the table and brushes his smiling lips with the tips of his fingers. He and the Duke exchange a look.

“But you spoiled an arranged marriage before you knew us at all,” Sultenfuss muses. “I don’t deny you gave the girl an option that appears much happier, but where was this desire to know us before you ruined our work?”

Gaspar gives him a thin smile. “The timing was impossible. I needed to earn a few more vacation hours before I could visit.”

“It seemed very selfish, Mr. Ruholamini,” Sultenfuss says. “Very selfish indeed.”

Gaspar looks silently into his eyes.

“He arranged my marriage,” the Duke breaks in. “It might have been a good gambit, if it had come to pass. International connections and a new trading partner. And there was some hope that youth and beauty and charisma might set some fashions for my people and turn their minds towards the rest of the world.”

“It could not have hurt,” Sultenfuss agrees. “Of course there is no real harm done that it fell through. We shall simply have to try again. We congratulate the brides and we congratulate you, Mr. Ruholamini. And as to poor Garou… he misunderstood us entirely.”

“Caught up with him at a lake near the border,” the Duke mutters. “I have thoroughly explained the situation to him. It won’t be happening again.”

Figures dart and shift across the board. They sit in silence for a minute.

“Are you a chess player, Mr. Ruholamini?” Sultenfuss asks.

“Regrettably not.”

“It is better not to start. It can be very engaging, but if you know your opponent too well… I believe I bore my master. He has known me long enough to know all my little tricks.”

The Duke advances a bishop. Sultenfuss snips it in the bud, leaving a rook open to the sword. The pieces click as they are set on the table and the motions of their hands and the tiny bodies blur as they cross the board. Rapid. Nearly mechanical. They have been playing for a very, very long time.

Dancing, Gaspar thinks. Following steps they know too well.

Perhaps they have even played this precise game before. How horrible they must find it.

“Was your business concluded to your satisfaction, Your Grace?” he asks.

“Yes. I presided over an execution.” The Duke takes a black pawn. “Thieves, today. Hanged by the neck until dead, all over a piece of bread.”

Sultenfuss’ fingers stammer on his rook.

“Is that a touch?” demands the Duke.

“Yes, Your Grace.” Gaspar looks at him and finds that his pupils have shrunk to points. Sultenfuss’ face is ashen and his mouth is quirked in a smile that is nothing of the kind. A twitch works in his cheek. “Pardon me. My tremors, you recall.”

“Of course.” The Duke turns his attention over to Gaspar and looks him in the eye.

The Duke’s eyes are flat and haunted and exhausted. A chill runs up Gapar’s back.

Look at them. An advisor at his wit’s end, playing the jester with white knuckles and a facial tic. A powerful man worn to exhaustion, made hard from years of inescapable control—and he keeps himself from his dinner and his bed, all for a joyless game of chess with his servant.

Just look at them.

“Our statutes are very old,” the Duke says to Gaspar. “Ostensibly I am the sole judge and jury in my lands. I preside over all judicial matters.”

“A heavy burden.“

“Heavier than you know. I can preside but I cannot choose, given the laws I have inherited. Mercy is a modern commodity, one I have found difficult to introduce to our nation. In the winter, a stolen loaf of bread can be the deciding factor between a child that starves and one that lives until the next summer.”

“Murder is capital,” Gaspar agrees.

“Let the Devil sit on the throne of Austermuhl. If he is the Devil he is sure to have gold enough.” The Duke scratches at his beard. “If it came to that, I’d marry  _him_.”

“Very good, Your Grace,” Sultenfuss murmurs.

Gaspar sits back in his seat and slowly gates his fingers. He watches the movements on the chess board without registering a bit of it. He takes all the data they have given him, along with everything he’s seen—the roads he has traveled and the mountains he has watched and the lakes he has seen his face reflected in—and he begins to churn them together, grinding piece to piece in the mill of his mind. Who does he know. What can they learn.

With food comes people, and with people comes money, and with money comes the want of more money, and then roads and towns and cities and more money to fight over, which makes for guilds and municipalities and judges and courts and then, of course, inevitably,  _mirible dictu,_ that highest of delights: constitutions.

But of course they’ll need food.

The Duke moves his pawn down the board. Sultenfuss picks up his last rook and begins to move it to the right.

“No,” Gaspar says. “If you please. To a6.”

Sultenfuss’ eyebrows bounce. He glances at the Duke, who tilts a silent look Gaspar’s way.

“Of course. It hardly matters,” Sultenfuss says. He shrugs, holding the rook aloft. “Even if I go there, it will end in…”

“I’m not versed in finishing moves,” Gaspar said. “Only curious about the process.”

Sultenfuss turns his gaze back to the board and slowly takes the white pawn sitting on a6. His rook sits beside his master’s, a castle of night beside a castle of bone.

“This doesn’t change much,” Sultenfuss says. He is addressing the Duke, looking at him with the candles shining in his eyes. “Just a few extra moves, that’s all. We know how it will end, of course.”

Gaspar keeps his eyes riveted to the board, because if he looks up the soft tone that has finally entered the soft voice may evaporate, and he will have robbed the Duke of this one gentle moment.

“Of course,” the Duke says.

He reaches for his rook and takes the black castle. He holds Sultenfuss’ rook in his palm, cradling it in a strong, steady hand.

Gaspar holds his breath. He can yield after all.

“Stalemate,” the Duke says.

“How interesting,” Sultenfuss murmurs.

“Let’s go to the library,” the Duke commands. “I’m hungry and I’d rather sit in a more comfortable chair.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Sultenfuss rises and puts away the pieces of the board just as quickly as he unpacked them. “Join us, Mr. Ruholamini. I am not yet done picking your brains.”

“With pleasure. May I beg a cup of coffee?”

“I’ll have it brought,” the Duke says. He reaches out with both hands and Sultenfuss passes him the folded game. He fits it under one arm and beckons Gaspar with his head. “This way.”

Gaspar walks three steps behind the Duke, seeing Sultenfuss walk a pace behind his master. He examines the walls of the hall and the character of the sconces as they shed light on the tapestries that lead through this more residential portion of the castle. He looks at these, because if he is looking this way and that, he’s not nearly as likely to see the Duke pass the black rook into Sultenfuss’ hand. Nor to see Sultenfuss slip it into his breast pocket and keep it there for the rest of the night.

He sleeps very well that night. He doesn’t hear the wind at all.

* * *

“Well, well, well!” Maeve’s voice cries.

Rudolph pulls up short and turns where he stands. Maeve is hovering the doorway of his chief of staff’s office. Voices come floating out.

“Good morning, Maeve. Etelia, do you have the—”

“Yes, sir, here’s the first draft of the agricultural agreement with the petitions from the merchant’s guild for an additional seaport.”

“I said, ‘well, well, well!’ You didn’t let me finish: Look what the cat dragged in!”

“Good  _morning_ , Maeve.” A drawer scrapes open. “I’m sure I’m very happy to see— hgnk!”

Etelia’s little scream and Maeve’s laugh cut off whatever else he was about to say. That’d be the spring-loaded snakes, then.

“ _MAEVE—_ ” his man roars, and Rudolph breaks into a broad grin. A warm, fuzzy feeling ripples through his whole body, easing aches and pains he hardly knew he had, and he basks for a minute in the sound of his man’s voice. Finally! He’s back!

It’s been five long weeks without Gaspar as his faithful shadow, without the warmth of the man’s body as he leans down to whisper in his ear, without a glance over the rims of eyeglasses or the shape of his fingers steepled in thought. It’s been five weeks, more to the point, since he’s really felt that the country is in good hands.

But finally his man is back with him. All will be well.

He decides to walk down the hall and greet him.

It’s a decision he will remember for years to come. It’s a decision that will burn in him to his bare veins tonight, as he struggles to parse what has happened to him, where it has all come from, how he could have been so blind for so long.

He walks down the hall. He does not fall in love. Falling requires something dramatic, like a shove off a cliff or some other sickening moment when the ground disappears.

All he does is walk down the hall. All he does is reach the door, and realize.

He approaches a door he knows and a woman he knows standing in front of it. He takes a familiar turn around a familiar corner, looking into a familiar office to find a familiar face inside. The eyes that find him are familiar and the look in them is familiar, too.

He knows it all, every instant. It is even a familiar feeling in his chest, but he’s been calling the feeling by the wrong names: respect, regard, approval, fondness, friendship. Trust.

He’s been misdiagnosed. His heart has been a terrible doctor, or perhaps it was his brain at fault. The other emotions had been the symptoms, not the root cause, and now he is standing in the doorway, struck by lightning, shredded down to his atoms with a perfect, lucid “Oh” on the tip of his tongue.

‘Oh, no,’ in truth—‘oh, no,’ where he stands on the cusp of who he was seconds ago and who he is now, a new man in an old skin, irreparably riddled through with every emotion he’s misattributed, all of them, and more.

All in an instant. In the twinkling of an eye.

His man rises to his feet and bows deeply, deeply. He’s put on weight again, and his shoulders are easy and his tan is so dark, and— just the sight of him standing again, really, on his own two feet, strong and upright and smiling…

The desk is littered with little colorful paper snakes.

“Good morning, sire.”

Finally. That voice. He’s back at last. Rudolph has missed him, but now he’s back, and here, so close Rudolph could touch him.

Rudolph swallows. And if his man were still on the seashore or in a boat or down in the depths of the polar sea, he couldn’t be further out of his reach.

Rudolph can only smile at the familiar face, and hope it is his familiar smile.

“All right, old man. Back in one piece, I see. How are we today?”


	16. Shatranj

“An interesting piece of chess history came to my attention today,” Sultenfuss says by way of prelude.

His Grace the Duke is tired-with-intent this evening. Sultenfuss knows all the gradations and colorings of his master’s exhaustion: the warm weariness of a hunt that’s left his muscles sore but his brain ticking, the tight physical fury and hollowed spirit of a day spent presiding over executions, the slow slump of his heavy shoulders when he finds himself alone with someone whose loyalty and obedience requires no façade of aggression to ensure.

Tonight he is tired and he clearly means to sleep. All that remains for Sultenfuss to do is to prepare him for it, ease and soothe him, relax him by degrees. It usually takes a few hours to help His Grace out of the shell of state business and strip his burdens and responsibilities off one by one. 

He doesn’t mind that it takes time. It’s a favorite task. Satisfying.

His Grace already relaxed enough to fidget, up to his usual tricks of playing with the men he’s captured from Sultenfuss’ side. Right now he holds the black queen in one hand, running her through and through his fingers and taking her in a loose fist every few seconds. 

(He really must do something about His Grace’s marriage situation. This is not a very subtle sublimation. His master is suffering.)

At Sultenfuss’ words, the Duke glances up from their game and moves an eyebrow a minute distance.

“Our Southern neighbors developed the ancestor of chess somewhere in the 7th century,” Sultenfuss explains. He executes the white bishop and ferries it off of the board. “We still use their terms, to some degree.  _Rukh_ , for instance. Chariot.”

“Mm,” says the Duke.

“The game was called  _shatranj._ In an interesting cultural difference, the game consisted exclusively of male pieces.”

The Duke advances his knight. Sultenfuss considers the matter before him, seeing a check in two moves, and dares his rook to aggression. Once the game ends, the Duke will doubtlessly take the opportunity to go to bed. He needs a long and restful night, and Sultenfuss has high hopes for it. They are expected to have some rain.

“Since there were obviously there were no queens, in that game, what we now call a queen was a minister or an advisor.”

In the Duke’s hand, the black queen stops turning. The Duke blinks his eyes and looks at Sultenfuss.

“You don’t say,” he murmurs.

The Duke shifts his fingers to bring Sultenfuss’ queen back into his hand again. He holds her there, clever and deft fingers wrapped just loosely enough to allow the crown to peep out, cushioned by the warm strong flesh of his palm.

“Yes, Your Grace. And in fact the piece is still referred to as a  _wazir_  in some countries.” 

“Hm.” The Duke blinks his eyes slowly and turns his gaze down onto the board once more.

Sultenfuss runs his fingertips over his smiling mouth. “Moreover, after the advent of chess as a distinct game, the advisor or queen seemed to have been a significantly weaker piece than you or I would recognize until about the 15th century. Presumably the increase of power occurred coincident with her coronation, as is the usual way for these things to happen.”

The Duke’s mouth flexes in something that’s almost nearly a smile. Sultenfuss’s chest swells with it. He’s going to sleep so well tonight.

“Once a minister,” the Duke muses. “Hm.”

He takes a pawn. Sultenfuss makes him pay for it with a knight. The Duke watches the board for a long moment, so still and thoughtful that Sultenfuss’ attention eventually turns to the only movement in the room: the Duke’s hand, bothering the queen.

Again and again across his hand, the Duke turns Sultenfuss’ queen around his fingers, guiding her smoothly head over heels and heels over head through his capable grip. The movement is hypnotic, neither too quick or too slow, but dreamlike, the inattention of a skilled man whose long experience stands in for conscious thought when he wants to show his skill. Cross and base, base and cross, the carved curves slide obediently across His Grace’s skin.

Around and around and around and around he takes her, steady and inescapable. His Grace gives her endless moments of light torture, and when he’s decided she’s sufficiently dizzy he catches her again, holding her with just the tip sticking out of his fist. Helplessly under his control, he subjects her to a final assault, rubbing the pad of his thumb in maddening little circles over and over and over and over and over and over and over the head of his captive. Stopping. Changing direction. Over and over and over and over. Until he’s done with her, and he starts it from the beginning once more, turning her around and around again.

Sultenfuss swallows.

The Duke reaches out and puts him in checkmate. 

“Riveting,” the Duke says. He sits back in his chair. “I will play one more game.”

Sultenfuss clears his throat. “Very good, Your Grace.”


	17. Her Grace

_The Duke pours a glass of wine with his own hands and offers it to her, their fingers brushing as the crystal slips from his hands to hers. All the glasses from this set have a chip or two — they are the distant legacy of a great uncle, a world traveler. The crystal is clear as ice. Velancian. Exquisite, and perhaps 200 years old. Irreplaceable._

_She broke the last one he gave her._

_No matter._

_“Thank you, il mio sposo,” Livia croons. She gives him a big, beautiful smile, lips an arterial red against the deep darkness of the wine. “So very nice to have an evening to ourselves, isn’t it? We should enjoy this all the time.”_

* * *

In the days before his wedding, the attic is ransacked for something he can be married in. It’s Sultenfuss who finds an appropriate garment, drags it out, has it cleaned — cleans it himself, more probably. His affection for all of the hideous artifacts of the Duke’s family comes through in the faint shine of the old brass, the cleanness of the dark fur. His great-grandfather wore it, the Duke suspects. Now it seems to be his.

Long fingers settle the old skin and tug the brass clasps into place. He holds himself still, feeling every heartbeat of this moment in which he stands dressed by his man’s hands and draped shoulders and chest in his care. Beneath his clothes, his skin tingles.

At last Sultenfuss folds his hands, palm to palm, fingers wheeling out to wrap around the backs of his hands, one thumb sliding between his first and middle fingers. He steps back, examining the Duke with bright grey eyes, taking in every detail.

“Most handsome, my lord,” he pronounces. “Are you ready?”

Ready to face her, he means. Albertina’s replacement. He only met her last night: Livia of Thessonia, all dark hair and flashing dark eyes, an irrepressible smile on her face. She alone of the women Sultenfuss has courted on his behalf has been selected to help rule his cold and dark country here at the rooftop of the world. He can only hope she will be happy.

Sultenfuss waits for him to speak. His heart lodges in his throat.

‘Ask me what is wrong,’ he thinks, wildly. ‘Say I can name an imperfection, call it off, see them across the border, and come home to you, only you.’

He blurts, “Are you sure of this. That she will be…” He doesn’t know how to finish.

Sultenfuss’ hands flex. His mouth purses around his teeth, lips disappearing for a moment as he susses out what he will say. He has already answered the Duke’s question.

“She was enthusiastic, Your Grace,” he says. “Eager to know more of Horuel. I thought it a promising sign.”

“You mean she’s the only one that would have me.”

Sultenfuss’ cheek twitches in a sad pseudo-smile. “Your Grace’s charms are unfortunately a little overshadowed by Your Grace’s climate.”

Of course. Who comes willing to Horuel? Who ventures across the snowy wastes, through dark woods and icy peaks, to come lie in the arms of a sadist and madman? Who will take the brute in his cave?

He draws a deep breath and eases it out. “Very well.”

Sultenfuss bows, a mere tilt of a thing. “Is there anything else I can do, my lord?”

“You have done everything, Sultenfuss. Thank you.” He straightens his spine and puts his shoulders back. “Leave me a moment.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Alone, he examines himself in the mirror. It will work, he tells himself. She will be shy and serviceable and fearful, until she learns that he means her no harm. They will be friends, someday, with a child between them.

It will work.

* * *

That night, she giggles.

“Don’t worry,” she says, between peals of laughter. His teeth clench together so tight his jaws creak. “I’m tired, too. We have all the rest of our lives, my sweet love. Don’t worry.”

* * *

_He lowers his head, thinking of oxen bending for the yoke. His reflection avoids his eye in the dark pool of wine._

_“Peaceful,” Livia muses, turning to look out the window where the snow is piling up. “Finally alone together.”_

_The servants have all been banished, assured that they will be summoned when they are wanted. He hasn’t seen Latrice all day. Sultenfuss bowed and left the room like one recoiling._

_He wets his lips with his tongue and drinks his wine. It tastes nearly like meat. The chip in the crystal catches his lip and tugs, nicking his skin._

_A bead of blood blooms on the cut. Livia gazes at him and zeroes in on it, pupils huge._

_“May I kiss you, sweet?” she asks, already drawing near. She licks the blood off of his lips and smiles at him, bright teeth against her soft lips._

_When her back is turned, he thumbs away the brush of her tongue and combs through his beard. He’ll let it bleed, for now._

_“Shall we call for supper?”_

* * *

The morning after her wedding, Livia sits down in the library with a notebook and writes notes on all the laws of the land in her long, swooping script. For three days that is her occupation, and then she emerges from her chrysalis of white dresses and old pages and unfolds her vast, dark wings.

“I’ve dreamed of Horuel ever since I was a little girl,” she says over dinner, delicately peeling meat off the bone.

The wedding party is long gone, and with it all the maids her family would have left her with. They do not have the resources to feed another three mouths, and she will not have enough finery to justify their presence. Moreover, neither the Duke nor Sultenfuss are quite so isolated as to welcome spies into the household. They were dismissed.

Livia seemed all-too happy to dispense with them. She is pleased to be alone. He views it as a good sign.

He lifts his eyebrows at her words. “Indeed?”

“Oh yes. All those stories about it.” She shudders prettily. “You know, freezing winters and howling wolves and peasant drowned and rescued and drowned again for the amusement of the lords. The reality not at all what I was expecting, but it’s still so very wonderful.”

Sultenfuss pats his lips with his napkin and smiles. One in a blue moon the man leaves his desk to come eat a meal. Most evenings the Duke eats alone, because by the time he thinks of it Latrice, Hans, and the cook have already dined and Sultenfuss has already forgotten to do so. But Livia is still so new, and his man is making every effort to make her comfortable and be attentive to her as she takes her place in her new household.

His chest fills to see it. If her presence is enough to make Sultenfuss remember to eat, he is glad to have her.

“If it is stories you desire,” Sultenfuss says, “I would be honored to put Your Grace on the right track. In the library there are several grisly accounts of our neighbors’ devilish deeds and I could guide you through some of the collections of historical significance in the castle. You will forgive me if I pride myself on—”

“No,” she smiles. “I don’t think so.”

They stare as if she’d just reached across the table and bit off one of his fingers. The moment stretches and stretches.

Smile widening, Livia finally murmurs, “My husband will tell me everything I need to know.”

She turns her eyes to him in a gesture of wifely adoration, but he can see the humor dancing in her gaze. His stomach clenches.

“Sultenfuss is the authority,” he says. “He knows it all. Turn to him with any questions you may have.”

Her eyebrows jump on her high, white forehead. Something twinges in the Duke’s gut — a vestigial sense flickering back to life, his bones remembering how far his father’s arms can reach. He knows, without knowing how he knows, that he’s done something he’s going to have to pay for.

She turns her head away and he tries to remember how to breathe.

“Then I must recourse to you, after all,” Livia says to Sultenfuss.

He bows his head to her. “I am at your service, Your Grace.”

“Yes,” Livia sighs. “I know.”

* * *

_“Shall we call for supper?” Livia’s hand is already at the bell. They’d had bells before, but after his father’s time they fell into total disuse. The jerk of the rope makes his stomach sour._

_An unfamiliar boy-child scurries in and sets the table. Someone from the village, no doubt — his parents must be of good repute, if the Duke has never seen him before. When he’s done, he vanishes through the door without a bow and without a word._

_“There, now,” Livia hums, sitting down. “That’s just lovely.”_

* * *

Thieves, again.

He has no choice in these matters. It doesn’t matter that they stole for the sake of their freezing babies or their starving parents. He can’t do anything. The law is perfectly clear and perfectly sacrosanct.

The accused and their families march up to the castle to hear justice done. He receives them in the great hall of his fathers, sitting in the stone chair his ancestors used. He only ever seems to use it for this.

Sultenfuss knows he hates it. He’s volunteered to attach leather straps to the arms and legs of the throne so they can strap him in and let him strain against it like the torment it is. Today, the Duke fastens his mind on the prospect of chess this evening, an hour and a glass of wine alone with his man. He loves their games, rigid and rote but soothing, a dance whose steps he knows. A place where his failures devastate no one, not even himself.

All he wants is to have it over with. He makes the decree and the business is done. He can return to his efforts to save the next batch of criminals.

Sitting beside him, Livia clears her throat.

“Bailiff,” she says in her sweet, gentle voice. “There is a portion of the punishment my husband has forgotten.”

His eyes dart to her. She draws a page from her notebook.

“In my country we call it strappado,” she smiles, offering it to the bailiff. “Reverse hanging. We don’t want them to be uneven, do we? So we mustn’t hang them on only one side.”

The bailiff’s eyes flick from the drawing in his hands up to the Duke. The bailiff had served his father. They both remember the screams, the sounds of twisting bones, the sobs. The faces of children watching the bodies of their parents break, living, at eight feet in the air.

“I determined that punishment excessive,” the Duke says. “It is unnecessary.”

Livia smiles. “With perfect submission to you will, my lord, is it not better to warn criminals against these deeds?”

The Dukes tries to pin her with a look. His coldest; the one that always works on the murderers.  Livia is new to Horuel and she does not realize that pain exists even if she is not the cause of it. She has not lived here long enough — someday she will realize that the pain is what comes before the execution, when fear and hunger and freezing cold break down a man’s terror of human reprisal and grind him into someone who will dare it. She does not yet know what the threat of being lost in the maw of winter can do.

“They know the penalty,” he replies. “I find that death is a sufficient deterrent.”

“And yet there are ever more hangings for your to preside over,” she muses. “My noble prince, do you not think these punishments are perhaps a little… impotent?”

His throat closes.

“Death is enough,” he says. “We gain nothing from the pain before then. They would not steal if they were not in pain. It is enough.”

Livia huffs a pretty huff. “With total humility—“

“Then be humble,” he snaps, “and content your blood-thirst with three deaths.”

The villagers keep their eyes on the ground. Livia gives him a reptilian look, sharp teeth and cold blood. Again his belly flutters.

Yes, he knows, he knows. He will pay for this.

* * *

He has been in consultation with Sultenfuss all afternoon, and when the time came to eat his man could hardly insist that the Duke dine and he remain behind. They walked down the halls together, talking easily, his advisor’s steps very nearly in line with his own.

Sultenfuss pours them each a glass of wine, in the old crystal, and it’s worth the discomfort of the chips in the rim for the way his man’s eyes admire the carvings and the way his hands delicately handle the glasses, fingers wrapping carefully around the stems. His bloodline is a black sky, a few struggling pinpricks of light gasping in a sea of monsters and brutes. But to have such a stargazer makes him want no other family, for no other family would have so much of this man’s care and attention.

They sit, and eat, and talk. He finds himself sitting with a broad smile on his lips, listening to Sultenfuss’ conspiratorial cattiness regarding the latest letters he’s received from their friend in the court of King Rudolph. Then the door opens.

“Oh,” Livia says.

Sultenfuss and the Duke both rise to greet her. Sultenfuss bows.

“Good evening, Livia,” the Duke says.

She is mistress of this castle, he reminds himself. It’s foolish to begrudge her presence at her own dining table.

“Yes,” she sighs. “Darling, you know I don’t like it when your dogs eat at the table.”

He pauses in the act of sitting back down. “What?”

Giving him a sad look and a very sweet little pout of her red lips, Livia points a finger at Sultenfuss. His advisor stares.

“Can’t you dismiss him?” she asks. “For me?”

His stomach curdles.

“Why would—?”

“It’s not sightly for a man of your status to let servants sit at your table. A Thessonian servant wouldn’t ever dream of doing such a thing, much less dare to drink your wine. Just the thought of the expense, wasted on them…”

Sultenfuss is staring at the duchess, one hand very careful and very still on the table beside his wine glass. They often drink wine together. It’s nearly the only sustenance his man takes, more than adequately subsumed by the provision for his room and board. He does it in lieu of eating, some nights — the fact is that Sultenfuss saves him money by drinking wine.

“I’m only concerned about your reputation, lover,” Livia says. “I don’t like to see him take advantage. It’s practically _theft_.”

The Duke swallows so hard his throat clicks. She knows.

In the ledgers there’s the execution order for an M. Sultenfuss, 30 years ago, by public hanging. He still doesn’t know if that was Sultenfuss’ mother or father. Either way, it’s a certainty that Sultenfuss watched one of his parents murdered by the Duke’s father.

However legally. However judiciously.

They never speak of it. What could they possibly say? What excuse or apology could the Duke ever make that would have any meaning? All that matters is that Sultenfuss is not a thief, nor is he just a thief’s whelp.

But he doesn’t need to be either of those things for humiliation to bite him.

His hands shoot to his sides, visible and visibly empty. An old and automatic response to suspicion. His smile cracks in place and holds tight, but the look in his eyes says it would’ve been kinder to reach out and slap him. It would’ve been kinder to cut something off.

“Livia,” the Duke snaps.

“It _is_ ,” she insists, all sweet indignation on her husband’s behalf. “He presumes much too much. Anyone would say so, darling. You’re so sweet and indulgent, and you just end up spoiling them all. The villagers, the servants — especially him.”

“That is not your decision to make.”

“Am I not your wife?” Livia asks. “The keeper of your house? All your domestic happiness? It takes an outsider, my love, to shake up the truth. You favor him beyond his merits.”

“Sultenfuss, sit down,” he says severely. “Livia, if you wish to eat, you will do it with us or you will do it alone.”

“Ultimatums,” Livia smiles. “The recourse of a confident man, I’m sure.”

“Choose.”

“You may have my dinner sent to my bower,” she sniffs, turning on her heel. “Check yourself for fleas before you come to bed, my own.”

She walks away, but her job is done. His appetite vanishes. Sultenfuss can’t even touch the table.

They part minutes after she leaves.

* * *

A knock on the door of his study brings his head up.

“Come.”

Latrice enters with a large envelope in her hands, fresh from the road. The Duke takes it and slits the seal open. He frowns as he pulls the pages out; a crest of twined stags look back at him. The stags are shedding velvet and blood drips from their peeling horns to the white field behind them.

He knows the symbol. The Reyamuks, away in the middle-north country, are quiet vassals. Extremely populous, though not particularly hardy. Only three sons are left in competition for the baroness' seat, and each is untrusting and grasping enough to look only rarely outward. By and large the Reyamuks stay in their village, fortified and curling ever inward upon themselves.

He’s heard just enough of their winter’s entertainment to think they have good reason to be quiet. He would see it end, but his powers are strained enough without trying to fight a rat king.

Being quiet vassals mean they don't tend to write to him; at least, they haven't since the Christmas a decade ago, when he had one of their daughters executed for slipping powder into his wine.

He skims the first page. No cipher. Either they are foolish or they feel there is nothing sensitive in what they have to say.

_‘As you so generously observe in your previous note, Your Grace, our habits are true Horuelian, a style that we understood to have fallen out of fashion in your county—’_

Previous note? The Duke glances up at Latrice, as if she will have the answer.

She doesn’t. Instead, she has a huge bruise across her left cheek: a big purple-yellow mottle of a thing.

“Good God. Latrice!”

“Your Grace?”

“What happened?”

Latrice blinks her calm dark eyes. “Her Grace was not best pleased with breakfast this morning.”

The Duke stares at the bruise. It’s big, caused by an implement and not a bare hand. He thinks of the hairbrush that sits on his wife’s vanity table.

“I will speak to her,” the Duke says.

“No need, Your Grace. Just let me give it back to her with a wooden spoon,” Latrice smiles. “As long as we match, I’m happy.”

His lips shiver up to a guilty smile in reply. “It will not happen again, Latrice. She will learn that that is not our way.”

“Yes, my lord. Anything else?”

“Please send Sultenfuss to me,” he says. “I would like his thoughts.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He sits back in his chair and reads on, listening to the door open and shut.

_‘We are delighted to hear that this is not the case and that your tastes run to the delights of our forebears. If Your Grace would condescend to receive a token of our gratitude for your attention, we would be honored beyond conception to send our most accomplished jester to your castle. He is the most clever man in the world — he strips people down to show you what they really are. One of our little cousins, a scholar and an officer, could accompany him and wait on Your Grace. He can furnish you with everything you wish to know about succession and the ancient rights of Horuelian ladies—’_

His eyes jump to the address line. Her Grace Duchess Livia of Horuel.

His skin hangs heavy on his bones and he lifts a hand to rub at his eyes. Ancient rights, indeed.

* * *

_“There, now. That’s just lovely.”_

_Dinner is simple; it always is. He killed a moose during the last hunt, and the cook knows how to handle it. The portion for the castle is perfectly sufficient for their needs, and he has had the remainder sent down to the village._

_He sits across from her, at the other side of the long dining table. The distance should forbid conversation, but the candles are bright and it’s easy to see, and easy to hear._

_“I think it’s very romantic to be alone." She drinks down the last of her wine. “I enjoy it. I know you do, too. Solitude. It suits you, my dearest.”_

* * *

How precious chess becomes to him.

It is a taste he acquired, having learnt the game in boyhood and found it a little on the nose. Everything in his life is politics — for the little recreation he takes, must it be more of the same?

Sultenfuss shows him how different it can be. Chess offers a universe where logic and choice are both possible and necessary. In chess he can have excitement and certainty together, with every piece behaving according to its rules. And the stakes are so wonderfully low: the most unpleasant surprise leads only to a lost game, never to broken bones or gutted men. There is no such thing as a war this clean and this quick. No one can slide a knife into a minister’s back with so little consequence. The irreverence is a delicious indulgence.

As to his opponent, if they know each other’s styles a little too well and their games go a little too fast, what of it? It only shows how skilled they have become at following one another across the board, each hearing the other’s footsteps and knowing where he will be, just as surely as they know a pawn will advance a step and a bishop will leap diagonally.

What worlds of comfort there are in that.

They steal their games these days. Sultenfuss finds him when Livia has gone to bed, or when she is out on a walk, or when she is occupied with some business of her own in the castle. Once they played in the evenings after supper, but she doesn’t like to leave him between the meal and bed. It’s their time together, she says. Alone.

They’re playing in the middle of the night, now. First sleep is behind him, and before second sleep he’s risen to bully Sultenfuss out of his office and push him into bed. But the board was set when the Duke arrived in the doorway, and it’s been more than a week.

He’s black this time. It’s a good stretch of his muscles.

“I have been hunting alternative precedent on the definition of ‘to pay with your life,’” Sultenfuss murmurs. The candlelight flickers on his fingers as he eases a rook down the field.

“Indeed.”

“It is a description of execution that leaves the precise method to the discretion of the ruler. For you that means hanging. For your father it meant something similar, and for your grandmother it was usually beheading.”

“Yes.” He takes Sultenfuss’ bishop.

“I am thinking that there is room to reinterpret the term,” he murmurs, “provided I understand rightly the legal definition of life.”

He turns the bishop around in his fingers. What is life? Is it the blood in the veins? Air heated in the lungs?

“Legally, I do not know. But I would hazard movement,” the Duke says. “That being the distinguishing difference between a living thing and a corpse.”

Sultenfuss smiles at him and takes his queen with a delicate tap of his knight. “My thoughts exactly. If movement is the central feature of life, the results of that movement are the fruits of it. One could claim those fruits are children, although perhaps that is a rather… specific movement. I am thinking more along the lines of labor.”

Thieves pressed into service. Slavery, really.

“Would the punishment match the duration of life?” he asks.

Sultenfuss shrugs his shoulders. “I fear over-generalizing. I would wish that such a decision be left to Your Grace’s discretion per the case at hand. I have found no explicit reckoning of just how much of one’s life one pays with.”

Night and chess and his man’s soft, smooth voice are conspiring against him. A slow smile comes dragged up from his depths, even as Sultenfuss maneuvers him gently into check.

“Draft it for me and I will take it to the vassals.”

“Yes, Your Grace. There are other applications for a slight redefinition of ‘life’ as well,” Sultenfuss adds. “Any life-debts or life-long oaths may come under new scrutiny. I think particularly of the clergy, of course, and of divorce.”

The Duke darts a look at him.

“If it is received as a meaningful concept by your vassals, that is,” Sultenfuss clarifies. “I would not speculate on the matter further, but it is a possible consequence.”

“Indeed,” he says again. “Wise to be prepared for the eventuality.”

“Yes, my lord. Checkmate. Another?”

He should walk the man at swordpoint to his quarters. He has to go to bed but it doesn’t seem like he’s going to go quietly tonight. The last thing the Duke should do is indulge him.

“Another.”

* * *

He never tries before first sleep. He cannot quite stand to — the whiff of daylight is still in his nose when he settles down to bed, and the memory of light and eyes and all the seeing that would go on makes him falter.

When he reaches for her, it is deep in the night. With the bed curtains drawn and the lights out, he feels he might be all alone in the world, except for her body beside him. Still half in dreams, it is easier to kiss her, to bear her bites as the cost of quiet, and to take himself in hand and meet her body.

He is always slow, though he wishes he could be quick. It is because his dreams are slow, the products of an uncomprehending heart still baffled to find that he ignores its cries. When he sleeps he lets it have free range, and the rest of his body hears it — his mouth imagining a pair of curled lips and the smooth tongue behind them, his fingers dreaming of sweet sigils traced on soft skin and in soft hair, his nose and chest wishing themselves filled with the scent of books and ink. His skin wakes still tingling at the thought of meeting a warm match in the dark. His ears stay pricked for a voice soft and smooth and ever-smiling, turned heated and fond.

The only reason he married is to produce an heir. Having trade partners is a benefit, certainly, but only a healthy child with his blood swimming in its veins can make any of this worthwhile.

It’s his job. It's easier to do, if he thinks of doing his job — so much easier, if he knows that somewhere in the castle Sultenfuss is awake and working, writing to their new allies, drafting a subtle alteration to the precedent of centuries, trying to pull a little more grain from the earth and squeeze a little more blood from the stone.

Quiet in the night, they can do their jobs together. He will make a man for the future Sultenfuss is building. Give him a heir to secure his legacy.

Together, working in the dark. The two of them.

But sometimes she makes it too hard, her voice too loud, her laugh too sharp in the night. Sometimes she won’t kiss and she wants to play. It is so very reasonable for a wife to want pleasure.

She only finds it in pain. In talk of executions and plans for punishment.

“Again?” she croons, feeling him against her leg. Soft. Mortified. Sweaty under the sheets. “Oh, my prince. Poor dear. They certainly didn’t tell me this when we were first affianced.”

He drags himself away from her, pivoting his hips out of range. It won’t work tonight. Better to just stop.

“I… do you want…?” He can give her his hands, at least.

“No, I’ll do it. I know how,” Livia laughs. She lets out a little purr as she shifts in bed. “I think I know what would help you, darling dear.”

He knows he should not ask, but he cannot do his job. He cannot do his job, and he wants to.

“Do you,” he says.

“I think you’d be able to stay hard if I sent for your man,” Livia croons, “and you put him on his knees and fucked his throat first.”

He freezes.

“We should try it,” she breathes. “Don’t think it would just be good for you. I’d like to see him choking and crying.”

Calmly, methodically — swallowing down his rising gorge — he reaches for his dressing gown and pulls it to his body. He gets out of bed and walks through the curtains, leaving her wriggling in the sheets.

“Darling,” she calls, a protest two sing-song syllables. The tone is clear as day. ‘Just playing! Did I hurt you?’

He wraps himself up and opens the door.

“Oh,” she says, sounding a little surprised. “Are… are you really going to…?”

His hand stammers on the knob.

“No,” she decides. “No, I don’t think you would. In fact I doubt you could.”

He leaves the bedroom and closes the door behind him. He strikes out into the hall, away from the offices, and doesn’t stop until he’s reached the farthest room at the farthest edge of the castle. There, there is no candlelight, no soft glow on books and tired hands. There, there is nothing to see but the night, and he stands by the window and looks out over the moon licked blackness of the ravine in the mountains. He stands and wills his stomach to settle and his heart to ease.

He rehearses the nothing he will say to her.

* * *

_“It suits you, my dearest.”_

_“I think so, too,” he replies. He takes a bite of his meal, chewing slowly and swallowing. “Were you very bored, while I was away?”_

_“A little,” she admits, peeling the skin off of her bread roll like she’s degloving a hand. She lifts a fist to her mouth and belches quietly behind it, twisting her lips. “Pardon. But I found ways to entertain myself. The village caught an adulteress and turned her over to my justice.”_

_He knows the little smile he will see if he looks up at her now. He keeps his eyes on his plate and slices off another bite of meat. His knife passes through the threads of muscle and draws a little runny red juice out to slick the blade. The cook knows he likes his meat rare._

_“And?”_

_“And I expect she’s still in the stocks now,” Livia sighs, turning her dark head to gaze out the window. She watches the snow come down, lips curled in a little snarl of amusement. “We only put her in this afternoon, after all.”_

* * *

For two days, he is called to a hunt. It is not a happy office, but trading the stone of the castle and the howl of the ravine for frigid skies and stripped trees brings a blast of cold, clear air into his mind. He remembers that this is his land, and he is its judge as well as its prisoner.

Hunting a bear is a challenge that demands skill as well as bravery. As the beast dies on the forest floor he wipes his sword and thinks of the villages that will not be molested this winter. Each steaming plume of dying breath spills the heat of the bear’s heart into the freezing air, and the stretch of its sharp red mouth shows how it is empty and unglutted.

His sword did that. He protects his land and his people. He is fit to rule them both.

He is fit to kill to protect them.

When he returns to the castle he does it unannounced. He has no wish to be seen still stinking of gore and the long miles through the trees. He slips in through a side way, enters his own chambers, and draws himself a bath. He takes his time. Once he’s clean, he goes to an old box that Sultenfuss found in the attic and put in place of pride in the library.

As far as they can tell his twice-great-grandmother used them. Sultenfuss sent samples to a chemist in Kazdka City and got back a long list of the properties of each vial, along with the probable effects in the body. Sultenfuss arranged them in order of gruesomeness and had the lock repaired so that only the Duke would have a functioning key.

He selects the one that the chemist said was odorless and tasteless. They tried a drop on a rabbit and it worked in just a few minutes. He slips the vial into his pocket.

He locks the box again and walks to his study. He left a few things unfinished before his hunt. He might as well complete them before dinner.

He meets her in the foyer, coming from the stables.

“Oh! Hello, lover,” Livia sings. She trots forward and cups his face in both hands, pressing a brief kiss to his lips. “Welcome home! When did you get in?”

“An hour ago. I wasn’t fit to be seen.”

“All covered in blood still? Darling, you know I don’t mind,” she smiles. “But I mightn’t have seen you, anyway. I’ve been so very busy.”

Beyond her, Sultenfuss takes a single step into the room. After two days apart he’s all too eager to drink him in, but what he sees makes him choke. Sultenfuss’ eyes are turned, mortified, on the floor. His face is pale, freshly haunted. He bows silently, a slow and rigid movement, too tense to fold smoothly, and he stands up again with a twitch around his eye.

The Duke opens his mouth to ask, but Livia is still here.

“Yes! I found a few old things with your family’s seal on it and I wanted to see the design everywhere. Can’t imagine why it’s not on everything already. In the morning I did a little embroidery, getting it onto a few handkerchiefs for you. Then I took a little walk to look at the grounds and see where we ought to plant roses in the spring.”

Roses? Embroidery? His stomach flutters. This isn’t her. She isn’t this kind of woman. It’s just the prologue.

“And then! You’ll love this, my own — will you believe what I did? I went right down to the forge, got a stamp with your seal on it, and I branded some of our livestock!”

He blinks at her, forehead creasing in confusion. Their livestock are already branded, done in one day in the summertime. There’s no reason for her to walk out into the farm in the dead of winter; the animals won’t even be out to wander. Why…?

“Precisely the kind of hands-on duchess you wanted, aren’t I? Of course I had wonderful help.”

She reaches out and gives Sultenfuss a comradely slap on the back.

His man’s eyes bulge in his skull and he lets out a gasp completely out of proportion to the force with which she struck him. His face goes green and his mouth hangs as slack as a corpse. Knees buckling, he stumbles forward a few steps and catches himself on the demilune beneath the foyer mirror. His hands shake.

A sack of ice wraps itself around the Duke's guts and squeezes.

“Your man’s cooperation was absolutely invaluable,” Livia croons.

She pets Sultenfuss’ back and he lurches away with a grunt, baring his teeth and only just managing to pull the sides of his lips up into a quivering, rictus grin. Tears stand in his eyes and his mouth twitches with the strain.

“The m-m-merest t-trifle,” he rasps. “I am at your s-s-service, Your Grace.”

“I think you’re dismissed,” Livia smiles. “Not to anticipate my sweet husband’s needs, but we like our time alone together. Off you pop.”

Sultenfuss looks at him. His pupils are two wet specks adrift in grey seas, the color flat against the shiny redness of his eyes.

“Go,” the Duke orders. His nerves jangle in his hands, trying to stand up and reach out for him. He needs to go. He needs to hide. “Send me Latrice.”

His man’s green tint turns to ashy pallor. He bows a fraction, pain in every degree of motion. “F-Forgive me, Your Grace. I dismissed her for the day. She is injured and cannot walk.”

“What?” Livia shrills. “You have no authority to do that!”

“He does." Livia gives him an outraged look. “I said as much years ago. How did she injure herself?”

“A burn, my lord. On her inner thigh. Fairly serious.” He clasps his shaking hands slowly, in that old way, lacing up whatever else there is to say and hiding it. “I have asked the physician to ensure there is no infection.”

“You don’t have the right to do that!” Livia thunders. “You presumptuous little wretch! If that clumsy fool burned herself—”

“Enough!” He shifts his stance and the bottle in his pocket thumps against his leg. “Enough. The physician is already summoned. Let it be."

“Is there anything you require from Latrice that I may do, Your Grace?” Sultenfuss asks.

“It pertained to supper,” he lies. “I will go see the cook.”

“Let him fetch her up. She should come to you,” Livia snaps.

The Duke glances at Sultenfuss. Dear God. The woman is 80 years old. Even Livia—

What is he saying? Of course Livia.

“Can she?” the Duke asks. “I would not have her climb the steps if it would pain her.”

Like the shadow of a cloud moving over a field, a shadow of a smile shivers across Sultenfuss’ mouth and is gone. “You are kind, Your Grace. I believe she is in perfect health.”

“Very well. All the same, I will walk down. I have not been in the kitchens for some time. Better to cast my eye over it and see that all is right.”

Sultenfuss inclines his head.

“Thank you,” the Duke says. “That is all.”

Sultenfuss dares one more glance at the duchess before he retreats into the hall.

His footsteps have barely died away when Livia crosses her arms over her chest. “Why do you indulge him?”

“Livia—”

“Why? It's pathetic! You're a limp little worm wrapped around his finger!” Livia throws her hands in the air. “How do you think it makes me feel? My husband wants his advisor — so what? Hundreds have wanted their roll in the hay with a peasant, and they never let it get in the way of ruling the country! But you won't fuck him and be done with it! Is it wine and roses you want? Some great romance you’ve built up in your head?”

“I am not speaking of this with you,” he snarls.

“You know you’ll never have him unless you order him,” she sneers. “Never. He's using you to give all the other mongrels a leg up and he doesn’t even need to suck you dry to get it, does he? They’re all laughing about it! You realize no one fears you? No one!”

Her dress bares her long and slender throat; all he can think is how easy it would be to grab it and beat her head against the white stone walls. What a spray she’d make, if he threw her hard enough: her blood and brains dashed as tall as a man in the entry way.

“They fear me more than enough," he growls. "I want that to end.”

“Then you’re a fool as well as a queer,” Livia laughs. She lets out a few harsh, sad barks of sound. “When I came here I thought I was coming to a man who wanted me! A man who could take me! But you’re just a pathetic little puppy, panting after him — when you have everything you could ever want, right here! Me, and that village, and all the power in the world! You can do anything to these people, make this place anything you could ever dream of, and you’re too terrified to even enjoy it!”

“What is there to enjoy?” he shouts. “Fear? Pain? That’s your perversion, not mine! I don’t want a country too paralyzed with dread and hunger to function! You and the Reyamuks—”

“At least they rule! Dirty inbred animals all of them, and still more noble than you, with your whimpering for love and affection! If you weren’t so stupid and weak—”

“God damn you!” he roars. “Get out! Out of my sight!”

“Blind yourself, you sniveling louse!” But she seizes her skirts and wheels away, out through the doorway towards her quarters.

He storms to the nearest room he can find and hurls a vase into a fireplace. Childish, perhaps. But better that than the porcelain of her skull.

He doesn’t want to make more work for his man. He’s got to keep it very discreet.

* * *

_“We only put her in this afternoon, after all.”_

_“Very reasonable,” he murmurs. “Did you strip her or drench her, first? I would think both.”_

_Livia turns back to him. Her expression is all delighted surprise; just what he’d like to see from the woman he married. He takes it in and savors it._

_Then she hacks like a cat coughing up a hairball. Graceless. Animal. Retching._

_“Darling?” he inquires. He’s never called her that before._

_She chokes, throat spasming, and tries to vomit, but can’t quite. Her body jerks with the need of it, spine rippling up to expel something deep inside. A line of drool descends from those bright red lips and snaps as it hits the table._

_Livia goes rigid, face twisting with a fraction of the pain she’d happily bestowed on others. The Duke carves another slice of moose meat and eats it, watching her writhe at the far end of the table. A shot of greenish bile bursts from between her lips and splashes on the table, but it’s too little and too late._

_Livia lets out a short, sharp cry, and collapses on the dining table, seizing violently for half a minute. Then she goes still._

_The Duke pats his lips with his napkin and rises from his seat. He walks to his wife. He reaches down and feels at her neck, seeking a pulse. Her throat had been his favorite part of her, soft and toothless, the rose hidden in the thicket of her thorns. It's easy to slide his fingers against the smooth warm skin and feel how still it is beneath._

_A swift and certain piece of justice. Battery and torture is no crime for a duchess — but the public undermining of his office, the consorting with her husband's enemies? Even a duchess would be publicly beheaded for treason, her body burned._

_He is glad to be able to show her mercy now. He's made his point about the superiority of clemency._

_He walks to the door and opens it._

_"Child?" he asks. The boy darts his head up, eyes large and solemn. "Please send for a physician."_

* * *

The duchess is dead: of course.

He sits up that night in his bedroom, candles lit, reading a book and taking notes. He sits just precisely in the center of their bed. Every few minutes, he sweeps his legs out and lets them run over the sheets. Here her feet would be; here her thighs.

Long past bedtime, long past even first sleep, he hears a soft pat on the door of his bedroom.

"Come," he says.

Sultenfuss peels himself around the edge, like a shadow uncertain of its host. He is in his shirtsleeves. "Beg pardon, my lord."

He shifts against the pillows. Tomorrow there may be questions -- there may not. The actions of a duke are perilously unregarded in this country. But Sultenfuss is not stupid. He is quite certain there is nothing he can get away with without his man's say-so.

He waits.

"My lord, I would not intrude upon your mourning if I did not think it relevant to your state of wellbeing," Sultenfuss murmurs. “I ought to tell you that prior to your death, Her Grace asked me to have a few artifacts from the archives prepared for her pleasure. I sent away two carpets to be cleaned, as well as your great-great-grandmother's box."

His voice comes out in a whisper. "Yes?"

"Forgive your servants, Your Grace," Sultenfuss says, "but the box was lost in the artisan's shop."

He takes a short breath in, imagining it. His great-great grandmother's box, quietly rotting for all eternity in Livia's would-be rose garden, turning everything they plant around it into a slow-growing disease, a poison that eats away at the earth. Or in the lake, thin glass all that keeps the water from turning the water putrid with nowhere to go. Or some distant mountaintop, hiding in a cave a quiet little secret in eight glass tubes.

No. Nowhere it could be found, or left to damage anyone else. Likeliest it has met its fate in a fire, carefully tended by his man, all its toxic fumes flying up the flue and out into the world, never recovered.

He’ll crush the vial to dust in the morning, and let it blow off the parapets — diamond-dust in the wind, mingling with all the other snow crystals blown from the mountain.

"The carpets?" he asks.

Sultenfuss smiles. "Safe and sound, my lord."

"Thank you," he says, voice soft.

"I have no conception of why you would thank me for an oversight, Your Grace, Is there any way I can be of service to you this evening?"

_Slip into bed with me. Let me kiss you, just once. Sleep with your heart beating in my arms, my own to protect. The bears I'd kill for you..._

"Nothing," he says. "But is Latrice well?"

Sultenfuss gives him a smile, one of the ones he loves. The sharp, vicious, politic smile. "I believe so, Your Grace. It is a very serious burn, but Hans says she is resting easily, grieved though she is by her mistress' death. I advise a week’s recovery, at the very minimum. Her return to horseback will be… some time.”

Doubtless the reason Livia picked that spot.

“Yes,” the Duke says.

They watch each other across the room.

"And you?" he asks.

Sultenfuss shifts his weight, letting the Duke see him do it. "I, Your Grace? I... asked Maryam to help me cleanse it."

The cook. "I see. And she is well?”

“Entirely, Your Grace. It was a deal Latrice and I were able to strike. Submission to the process to keep her out of it. Latrice yesterday. I today. Hans would have been tomorrow.”

Today. Where was he, when this happened? On the road? Sneaking through the corridors? Settling into his bath?

He swallows. “And if I had been gone more than three days?”

“My turn again, Your Grace. Hans needs his body. Mine is mostly irrelevant to what I do.” Sultenfuss tilts his head. “Although  if you had been gone a week I would perhaps have found another way.”

He sags against the pillows. He tries to remember the kill, if there was a moment when the bear's claws came a little too near . If he had not come back from the hunt, what would have happened here? How many more deals could they have made before death or the dungeon swallowed them up?

Sultenfuss hovers beside his bed. "... do you wish to see it, my lord?"

No. No, no, please, no. How could he ever want to see this man abused and mutilated?

"Yes." It's not about what he wants, really. It’s about what Sultenfuss offers. If he didn’t want it seen, he wouldn’t volunteer it.

His advisor gives him a thin and bloodless smile and turns, hands reaching for his buttons. He undoes them out of the Duke’s seeing and shifts his clothing down with little hitching movements of his hands.

His shoulders are so pale, so finely-wrought.  He shuffles his clothing down to his elbows and there, between his shoulder blades, is a raw pink oval, and inside it the sharp arch of an A. Beneath the oval, a compartment of sharp points signify the land — both the mountains and the sharp pine trees.

The coat of arms has so much more, with wolves as supporters and a spray of swords behind, and of course there isn’t an A in the center. By comparison this design is stripped to nearly nothing, but why would it be anything else? It’s just for the branding of animals. All it signifies is ownership, not ornament.

It’s much too big a scar for so narrow a back.

He stares and stares.

Sultenfuss glances back at him. The twist of his neck is everything lovely, a slight arch where he tries to look back and catch the Duke’s eye. “She told me that when her husband grew weary of my conniving ways, he would use it as a target for his sword.”

God. A blade running straight through the A, cutting between his vertebrae and out through the front of his chest. Threading his beautiful heart on its way.

“Latrice’s is smaller, be assured,” Sultenfuss says. “More painful, I am sure, but it is just the coat.”

The coat. The oval and the mountains. So Sultenfuss is the only one with the A. A for Anton. A for Anton's.

His stomach flips and he curses himself and his burning eyes. Livia didn’t mean it that way. She hated Sultenfuss more and that’s why she gave him the bigger brand. It is nothing but brutality. If it's one more thing she could take away from him by forcing it on his man, all the better -- but he was not the point.

“I am sorry,” he croaks. “It is unforgivable.”

“Quite all right, Your Grace,” Sultenuss says, pulling his clothing up. His shoulders don’t move, nothing but awkward jerking movements of his hands to put himself back to rights. He cringes as the fabric shifts across the open wound and Anton hates himself for letting him reveal this, for not offering to dress him again. But how could he dare? “I imagine I would have had something similar done eventually, though my thoughts ran more toward tattoos and all proper filigree. A quill rampant, splotching ink on a field of parchment, with your mountains and shield for shape. For a motto, I was thinking ‘Crede quod habes, et habes.’”

Sultenfuss turns face-forward again, buttoning up his shirt. He doesn’t do it up all the way, leaving a V of smooth skin and curling chest hair visible at the edge of his shirt.

Anton shouldn’t look. He does.

“Believe you have it, and you have it,” he recites. “Or ‘fake it until you make it’?”

“The guiding credo of my existence,” Sultenfuss smiles. “With my half-portion of charm and nearly full set of original teeth, what can’t I talk my way into?”

Anton swallows a smile of his own. He should not smile, with his wife so recently dead. “Maryam is helping you?"

“Yes, Your Grace,” Sultenfuss replies. “She disinfected it with alcohol right after. I will go to her again tomorrow morning for more.”

“I want the physician to look at you.”

“To give me the very same vodka, at 85% more the expense?” Sultenfuss grins. “Economy, Your Grace.”

“This expense I can spare. If he sees to Latrice, he will see to you.” He grasps for a bit of steel, just a bit, in his voice. “You’re no good to me with a massive infection. Not so near your heart.”

Sultenfuss sighs and tilts his head, and begins to hinge at the hips. “So please—”

“Don’t,” Anton snaps. “Sweet Jesus, don't. Don’t rake any more fabric over it. Stand up straight and go to bed and sleep on your stomach.”

Sultenfuss straightens up. His smile is a thing of wonder in this bedroom. Playful. Indulgent. “As you desire, Your Grace. With all deference to your recent bereavement… I wish you a good night.”

“Good night.”

His man leaves him alone. After a few minutes, he puts his book aside and extinguishes the candle, nestling down beneath the covers. Here her shoulders would have settled. Here would have rested her head.

He plumps her shape out of the pillows and flips them over.

Tomorrow there may be questions.

Tonight, Livia lies cold in the basement, awaiting a pyre fit for a queen, and his bed is very nice and very warm.


End file.
